Summary: A Butcher and a Baker shouldn't mix. But when you accidentally become Frank Castle’s accomplice after a body turns up in your bakery, you learn the only man who can protect you is the one you swore was a plague.
Pairing: Frank Castle x Reader
Warnings: 18+ Always. Canon level Violence. Character Death (non-major). Smut. Frenemies. A little hurt comfort if you squint.
a playlist if you'd like to listen to the songs that inspired the story
Support an author trying to refine their writing! Lemme know if you'd like a tag.
🔥notes smut.
Chapter 1: Preheat to 375°
Chapter 2: Beat Until Stiff
Chapter 3: Sanitize Your Work Surface
Chapter 4: Cut the Crust Off
Chapter 5: Punch Your Dough
Chapter 6: Burn to a Crisp
Chapter 7: Fold in Wet Ingredients 🔥
Chapter 8: Serve Before it Cools
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synopsis — 𓍼ོ.☘︎ ݁˖༘⋆ : a “misunderstanding” about diana ross leads to growing distance between you and michael. when a press photo fuels your doubts, you end things, and he begs for you not to walk away.
michael was talking about diana ross again. like her name lived somewhere in the walls with the music, the lights, and everything else that made him who he was. most days you could let it go, but that day you couldn’t. you were already feeling that weird little ache between you and just didn’t know what to call it yet.
“you always say her name like that.” you said.
he glanced over. “like what?”
“like she’s permanent.”
his brow pulled together. “she is permanent to me. she’s diana ross.”
“i know.” you said, but it still sat wrong in your chest. “it just feels like there’s this place for her in your life that i don’t have.”
that made him go quiet.
“that’s not fair.” he said after a beat.
“i’m not trying to be unfair. i’m saying i don’t know where i fit when she’s around you. it feels like im fighting for your love.” he didn’t answer right away, and that silence said more than anything he could’ve come up with.
“she’s been in my life since before all of this.” he said finally.
“i know.” you said, and it came out sharp. “that’s the problem.”
his jaw tightened. “nothing is happening between me and her.”
you let out a short laugh, the kind that doesn’t have any humor in it at all. “i’m not talking about what’s happening. i’m talking about how it feels.”
he dragged a hand through his hair. “you know that’s not what this is.”
you didn’t say anything, because honestly, you didn’t know anymore.
after that, everything started coming apart between you and michael in tiny ugly pieces. missed calls, replies that took hours and said nothing, conversations that died before they even got warm.
then the press got their hands on a photo.
award show lights. red carpet shine. diana ross leaning in and kissing michael’s cheek while he smiled like he’d been caught off guard, all soft and blushing and easy in a way that made your stomach turn.
it was easy. too easy.
you stared at the picture until it stopped being a picture and started feeling like evidence. then you called him. voicemail.
when he finally called you back, his voice was careful, like he was walking around broken glass. “i saw your calls.”
“i saw the pictures.”
“it’s not what it looks like.”
“it’s a kiss on the cheek, michael. it looks exactly like what it is.”
“it was nothing,” he said, and then quieter, “she surprised me.”
that wasn’t what hurt, not really. what hurt was how natural he looked in it. how little he seemed to have to think about where he stood, where he belonged, who got to be close enough to touch him like that.
“you were blushing. you didn’t push her away. you have a girlfriend michael.” you said.
he didn’t answer, and that was enough.
“i can’t do this anymore.” you said, your voice flat, like something had gone out of it.
“what?”
“i can’t keep being in something where i’m always trying to guess what place i have.”
“that’s not what this is mama.” he said too quickly.
but you were already past it. past the photo, past the excuses, past every time you had told yourself not to make it bigger than it was. you hung up immediately.
he showed up two days later. you knew it was him before you even opened the door. when you did, he looked wrecked. his hair a mess, eyes too sharp, like he hadn’t slept in days.
“please mama….” he said. “don’t do this.”
you stayed where you were, one hand still on the door.
“don’t do what?”
“don’t leave.” he said. “not over this.”
“it’s not just this.”
he shook his head hard. “it’s diana. it’s one moment. it’s nothing between us.”
“that’s the problem michael.” you said. “it’s always nothing, or history, or timing, or something i’m supposed to just understand without you ever having to say it out loud.”
something shifted in his face then, like maybe he was hearing you for the first time instead of just waiting for his turn to speak.
“i was clear with you mama.” he said, but even he didn’t sound convinced.
“no.” you said. “you weren’t.” he went still.
“i don’t know how to fix this.” he admitted, and for one second the honesty of it almost got you. almost made you want to reach for him, almost made you want to pretend this could still be saved if you just loved him hard enough.
“you shouldn’t have to fix it.” you said. “it should’ve been clear from the beginning.”
he took a step toward you, then stopped himself like he didn’t trust his own hands.
“please mama.” he said again, smaller this time. “don’t go.”
“i still love you,” you said, your throat burning.
his eyes lifted to yours.
“i just can’t keep doing this version of it.”
then you stepped back inside and shut the door. this time, you didn’t look back. because if you did, you knew you’d see him standing there, and you understand that this was the moment it really ended.
Tags; established relationship, childhood friends, fluff (for now lol)
disclaimer ; for my taglist, ik this is supposed to be smut but NOT TO WORRY, the plot advances as the chapters unfold. For now, enjoy my debut story :D
Chapter One: August, 1981. The long, brutal, summer day is coming to an end. You decided to call your boyfriend and ask him to meet you at your spot, the lake. The sound of cicadas fills the air as well as lightning bugs buzzing around. It’s hot, but not humid, and the summer evening wind begins to blow warm air. The clear sky is beginning to darken, revealing California’s brightest stars. You decided to wear a striped pastel tank top which lay perfect on your bronze skin, which would otherwise be caramel, if it weren’t for your tan. You pair it with white Reeboks, white socks, and light wash denims that are oh, so short.
Though Michael and you have been dating officially for a few months, you can’t help but remember when you guys were preteens when he first moved to Encino. Bright, playful, with the biggest, softest hair. As you watch the stream in front of you move along, you get a bright idea.
“Hey Mike? Remember when we were like thirteen, and you would always chase me because you knew how much I hated it?”
He looks at you with a youthful glimmer in his eyes and smiles, the memory giving him a fresh wave of nostalgia. “Of course I remember,” he chuckles, “I was so aggravating, wasn’t I?”
“Yeah, not much has changed.” You tease.
“Oh?” He replies, furrowing his brow, “That’s not what you told me the other week, honey. You had a lot to say, but I don't recall that one.
You playfully shove him, “Quit being gross, Michael!”
“I’m just saying, ya really didn’t say that–”
“Anyway”, you interrupt, “What if we did that again.. like right now?”
Michael’s eyes widen eagerly which he attempts to keep controlled, he swallows, “You want me to chase you, right here? With no objective?”
“Well, yeah, I think it’ll be fun. We’ll feel like a kid again, you know?” You reply, swinging your legs.
“Deal. Go ahead, I’ll give you a head start. Into the forest.”
Your heart skips a beat as you look over to the forest and see the long, endless trail as the full moon illuminates the path. “T-the forest? Michael, it’s getting dark.”
“I thought you was bad. Don’t get scared now.”
“I am not scared,” you protest, “I just.. it’s almost dark out.” You reply, almost whispering as if it was a secret.
“You’ll be okay, you think you’re gonna be running until the sun sets?” He mocks. “Besides, you won’t be alone for long.”
“What? You're gonna try to kill me or something?”
Completely ignoring your joke, his voice drops to the same octave it does when he’s tired. “You’re wasting time, y/n. Run.”
You look into his big, dark, eyes without saying a word. They look different, like he really needs you to run. In an attempt to not waste more time, you take off into the forest as fast as you can– branches snapping, leaves brushing against your bare skin. After about eight seconds, you turn around to see your boyfriend still standing there. Though he’s not chasing after you yet, this instinctively makes you pick up the pace.
As you get faster, you hear his footsteps chasing behind you and your heart begins to lose its rhythm. He’s really, really fast this time. You look back and see that he’s only about ten feet away from you. He’s your boyfriend, and you trust him, but this time you’re scared. For the first time ever you feel like prey and you no longer feel like you’re playing a game.
After running for about sixty seconds, your breath gets heavier and your body wants to keep going, but of course you start to slow down. You close your eyes and try to focus on speeding up but before you know it, you’re being tackled into the ground.
Caught.
It’s so dark, and so quiet. The only noises filling the air being the strained breathing of yours and Michael’s. Your knees are slightly scraped by your fall, which you won’t notice until you actually see it later. He gently grabs your hair and turns you over,
“I told you, you woulcn't be alone for long.” He says, barely catching a breath between each word.
after months of emotional distance, you file for divorce and move out. michael refuses to sign the papers and comes to your new apartment. (ʀᴇǫᴜᴇsᴛs 1/2)
solitude is now your best friend.
two months ago, you filed for divorce.
it wasn't an unplanned decision; it was crystal clear to you. the best thing you could do, for yourself and him. you didn't ask for michael's opinion.
this was the first time you were selfish in your marriage.
you thought about yourself, and only yourself.
you love michael—oh god, how you love him—but sometimes love isn't enough. loving someone means giving, and you handed so much over that there was nothing left behind.
it wasn't love at first sight; it was a kind of love built over time. you were there at the right moment, when things were good. and when things got bad, you stayed. it wasn't a sacrifice for you; it was all about love. it was about giving up all of yourself for him. you lost yourself within him, he consumed all of you. and you liked it—it wasn't a problem for you.
you loved to be the one he sought out for reassurance. you loved to be by his side, you loved when he cried in your lap. you loved how dependent on you he was. for you, that was the affirmation that he loved you as much as you loved him.
but then it stopped.
his behavior towards you changed.
you noticed the change in the little things: in how he wouldn't wait for you to wake up, or how he wouldn't kiss you before going to bed. at first, you thought it was another woman—you cried in his arms and he assured you that you were the only one. but then, he stopped opening up to you. it was somehow even worse to not have his emotional attachment.
this was devastating. who were you without him? were you still a person? you felt useless as an adornment. maybe an adornment had more value than you. you were tired—more than tired, you were exhausted. everything inside you was torn apart.
and then on your birthday—you thought everything was going to be okay. things would finally fall into place. you would fix it bit by bit. you waited for him—you waited for him on your own birthday. the cake was on the table. you waited for your husband on the couch until you fell asleep.
he arrived the next day.
he gave you a kiss on the lips—and looked at you with so much pain. you didn't know what was happening behind those pretty eyes. but he didn't ask for forgiveness—he had forgotten about your birthday.
and just like that, you decided. it needed closure. you left the divorce papers on his office desk. you packed your clothes in a suitcase.
you went away.
you are lying in the bathtub. the scent of roses hits your nose. the glass of wine is resting on the floor. the bedroom of the apartment you rented seems empty even with the huge box bed. you can see it through the open door. it's a suite. but not like the one you had. it doesn't have paintings or a tv.
the telephone rings.
you don't run to pick it up; whoever is calling can wait.
the sudden breeze hits you now that you aren't in the warm water anymore. fuck, you hope you don't catch a cold.
“who is it?” your tone of voice is sharp. you don't want to talk to anyone. but then, you can hear breathing through the line. it's him. he's calling you after refusing to sign the papers for the third time.
“it's me.” after two months of talking through lawyers, he finally decided to call you. you want to speak, but you can't. the words are stuck in your throat; you just want to throw them all up. and it hurts, it's visceral. you choose to stay silent.
you hang up the phone.
the second time he calls, he is drunk. and he never gets drunk. he asks how you are, but you still don't answer. you can't.
you hang up the phone again.
the third time he calls—he doesn't say anything at first. it feels as if you're having a déjà vu, repeating the same scenario again and again. but this time is different.
“your silence is killing me,” he says to you. and you? you don't say anything back, even though you wanted to scream at him so badly. that same day, you call your lawyers to say you want the divorce as soon as possible, or they can start searching for another client.
michael has been waiting for you for more than three hours.
he's in the hallway of your apartment building when he sees you. you don't notice him; you're searching for the keys in your leather bag. you look like the same beautiful woman he fell in love with. when you finally look at him, it's withering.
it's painful because your eyes tell more than your silence. you don't look at him with any expectations; it's more like you are already prepared to keep your distance from him. it's what you do when you walk straight to the door. the key quickly fits in the lock.
“baby, talk to me. i’m begging you. let's talk.”
you don't look at him; you cross the hall and lock the door. silence is the only thing that michael hears from you; in agony, he places his hands above his head.
he cries. right there. in silence.
you're the love of his life. he knows it, and he thought you knew it. apparently, he was mistaken. he doesn't know what to do. he tells bill to drive him anywhere; the pain in his heart is there with him in the passenger seat.
“what should i do, bill? she doesn't want to talk to me, and i understand her. if i were her, i wouldn't talk to me, but it hurts so much.”
“you love her, son, that's why it hurts. tell her everything you're feeling. be honest, don't keep yourself in your own shell, mike.”
michael wanted to give up on his marriage—not because of you.
he loved you.
he loves you.
it's more because of him; he doesn't know how to deal with himself. when you grow up in front of millions of people—you can't be a normal person. you were too perfect for him, and he couldn't be perfect for you. he couldn't give you the same sense of normality you gave him.
he knew how much you gave yourself to him—all the love, support, affection. he felt everything, it was beautiful. because you were the one who made him feel loved. an unconditional love. the problem wasn't you; it was him. he realized how often people notice you—for your beauty, your talent, your confidence.
he felt as if he were a blemish on you.
they said—what is a woman like her doing with a man like him?
he didn't know. what could he give you? he felt undeserving of you. love wasn't enough, not for you. you deserved more, so much more than what he could give you.
then, he distanced himself from you. it wasn't on purpose. it just happened when he kept thinking twenty-four hours a day why you would love him.
he sabotaged himself.
and when he saw the divorce papers—he wanted to let you go. he swore that he tried to sign those damn papers. but you were the best thing that ever happened in his life. he chose to be selfish; he wouldn't give those papers to you, he didn't care about how many times your lawyers called him.
he called you three times—and everything he could hear was your silence. it hurt. he felt agony and pain when he looked at your side of the bed and it was empty. he felt empty. he felt your absence, and it was too much. is that how you felt every time he closed himself in his bubble? is this how much he hurt you? but he couldn't let you go. this wouldn't happen. you and he were supposed to be always and forever.
“bill, turn back, please.”
bill nodded. michael didn't care if you didn't want to talk to him; he would go back there anyway. he didn't call your name. he just knocked on your door. loud knocks. and it was enough to wake up the whole building.
“what the f—” you stopped your sentence when you realized it was him. he was there when you opened the door. and for the first time in months you looked at him, you really looked at him.
“it's me, baby.” he didn't wait for you to let him in; he stepped through the door. when he saw you so close to him, his world stopped right there. your eyes were red and he could see the fallen tears on your cheek.
you were crying. you were crying because of him.
he reached out his hand to wipe your tears—but you didn't let him. you stopped him midway.
“don't touch me, michael. do not do it, you don't have that right. now, what are you doing here? did you finally decide to give me the divorce?”
“i will never do that, mama. i can't let you go. i can't lose you. i won't survive without you.”
“you already lost me, michael.”
“i don't believe you—i know when you are lying.”
you couldn't hold back your tears anymore. you cried, you cried like a damn baby. and you spilled everything that you were holding back:
“mike, do you think this is fair? you appearing here out of nowhere and saying these things to me? i don't even know what happened to us, i don't even know what i did to deserve this, you treated me as if i were nothing. you didn't ask me what happened. mike, you even forgot about my birthday. that day was the last straw.”
oh god. he wanted to die right there. he could withstand his own pain—but seeing you suffering and him being the reason for it was devastating. he held you, he touched you after days of not feeling you. your skin against his. you were warm—soft. and for the first time in months, he could finally breathe.
you were there in his arms, where you belonged.
“mike, what happened? what happened to us?” you were mumbling against his chest, crying and making a mess of his shirt.
“i’m sorry. i’m sorry. i’m sorry. the problem is me, baby, it wasn't you. i was so overwhelmed with my own feelings, i mean—you were always supporting me, giving so much love. and i felt like i couldn't do anything like that for you. i didn't understand why you would love me, i still don't understand. baby, you are so much better than me. please—”
“mike…….”
“i was too blind to see that i was only hurting you. i thought by being away from you….you would be happier….i distanced myself from you…because i thought i was undeserving of you. and i’m not gonna lie, baby, i still think that way. but i was selfish. i never really asked your thoughts about it. it was my own mind. it was my fault.”
his hands are cupping your face; he's staring at you as if he is afraid of you disappearing in front of him.
“how could you think that? how could you choose to ignore me just because you thought it would be better for you!”
“i’m sorry,” he kissed your chin. “i’m sorry,” he kissed your cheek. “i’m sorry,” he kissed the tip of your nose. “i love you so much. i can't be without you.” he finally pressed his lips against yours. it was bittersweet. more sweet than bitter. you received it with excitement, his tongue exploring your mouth. his leather jacket rubbing against your skin, sending shivers down your spine, you gave up fighting right there—when he holds you as if you were his salvation.
“i’m never letting you go, huh? i love you, baby.”
you knew that he really meant it. you were happy. because he was your happiness.
Don't let the weight of your past mistakes crush you
A Thragg x reader series. Also on AO3.
>> Slice of life, romance, domestic fluff, smut, a big focus on pregnancy/children. Pretty much a series about Thragg becoming more than what he was born to be. <<
Little dancer | sunset | babysitting your cat | tiny | waxing (ask) | Young Thragg meets young reader (time travel | ask) | .
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Tags; established relationship, childhood friends, fluff (for now lol)
disclaimer ; for my taglist, ik this is supposed to be smut but NOT TO WORRY, the plot advances as the chapters unfold. For now, enjoy my debut story :D
Chapter One: August, 1981. The long, brutal, summer day is coming to an end. You decided to call your boyfriend and ask him to meet you at your spot, the lake. The sound of cicadas fills the air as well as lightning bugs buzzing around. It’s hot, but not humid, and the summer evening wind begins to blow warm air. The clear sky is beginning to darken, revealing California’s brightest stars. You decided to wear a striped pastel tank top which lay perfect on your bronze skin, which would otherwise be caramel, if it weren’t for your tan. You pair it with white Reeboks, white socks, and light wash denims that are oh, so short.
Though Michael and you have been dating officially for a few months, you can’t help but remember when you guys were preteens when he first moved to Encino. Bright, playful, with the biggest, softest hair. As you watch the stream in front of you move along, you get a bright idea.
“Hey Mike? Remember when we were like thirteen, and you would always chase me because you knew how much I hated it?”
He looks at you with a youthful glimmer in his eyes and smiles, the memory giving him a fresh wave of nostalgia. “Of course I remember,” he chuckles, “I was so aggravating, wasn’t I?”
“Yeah, not much has changed.” You tease.
“Oh?” He replies, furrowing his brow, “That’s not what you told me the other week, honey. You had a lot to say, but I don't recall that one.
You playfully shove him, “Quit being gross, Michael!”
“I’m just saying, ya really didn’t say that–”
“Anyway”, you interrupt, “What if we did that again.. like right now?”
Michael’s eyes widen eagerly which he attempts to keep controlled, he swallows, “You want me to chase you, right here? With no objective?”
“Well, yeah, I think it’ll be fun. We’ll feel like a kid again, you know?” You reply, swinging your legs.
“Deal. Go ahead, I’ll give you a head start. Into the forest.”
Your heart skips a beat as you look over to the forest and see the long, endless trail as the full moon illuminates the path. “T-the forest? Michael, it’s getting dark.”
“I thought you was bad. Don’t get scared now.”
“I am not scared,” you protest, “I just.. it’s almost dark out.” You reply, almost whispering as if it was a secret.
“You’ll be okay, you think you’re gonna be running until the sun sets?” He mocks. “Besides, you won’t be alone for long.”
“What? You're gonna try to kill me or something?”
Completely ignoring your joke, his voice drops to the same octave it does when he’s tired. “You’re wasting time, y/n. Run.”
You look into his big, dark, eyes without saying a word. They look different, like he really needs you to run. In an attempt to not waste more time, you take off into the forest as fast as you can– branches snapping, leaves brushing against your bare skin. After about eight seconds, you turn around to see your boyfriend still standing there. Though he’s not chasing after you yet, this instinctively makes you pick up the pace.
As you get faster, you hear his footsteps chasing behind you and your heart begins to lose its rhythm. He’s really, really fast this time. You look back and see that he’s only about ten feet away from you. He’s your boyfriend, and you trust him, but this time you’re scared. For the first time ever you feel like prey and you no longer feel like you’re playing a game.
After running for about sixty seconds, your breath gets heavier and your body wants to keep going, but of course you start to slow down. You close your eyes and try to focus on speeding up but before you know it, you’re being tackled into the ground.
Caught.
It’s so dark, and so quiet. The only noises filling the air being the strained breathing of yours and Michael’s. Your knees are slightly scraped by your fall, which you won’t notice until you actually see it later. He gently grabs your hair and turns you over,
“I told you, you woulcn't be alone for long.” He says, barely catching a breath between each word.
"You hate them because you love what they destroy. I saw you during the spar. I saw your heart. You cover it in scars and anger, but the core of it... it is very warm."
✦ Pairing — [Sanemi x Hashira OC]
✦ Rating — T
✦ Warnings/Tropes - [Shinazugawa is Bad at Feelings, Protective Sanemi,Sanemi Needs a Hug, Obanai & Sanemi Friendship,Slow Burn,Romance, OC is a Hashira, Sanemi falls in love, Sanemi is Whipped, Protective Demon Slayer Corps Hashira | Pillars, Genya is adorable, OC is sweet but a badass]
✦ Status — In Progress
✦ Summary ✦
Sanemi Shinazugawa is the Wind: abrasive, violent, and scarred by a lifetime of loss. Asami Hikari is the newly appointed Sky Hashira: gentle, oblivious, and possessing a terrifying defensive mastery born from a tragedy she barely survived.
When Oyakata-sama pairs the Corps' ultimate offense with its absolute defense, Sanemi expects a burden. What he finds is the only person who can see past his rage to the man beneath—and the only person fast enough to catch him when he falls.
A story of healing, ohagi, and the terrifying power of kindness.
——— ✦ ———
✦ Check out my Patreon for more content. I'm four chapters ahead on my fics there.
✦ THE MAIN UNIVERSE ✦ Love my writing? Check out my Gothic Romantasy novel— Liquid Sunlight.
Sinopsis: After Clark pulls away, you try to convince yourself you can live without him. But jealousy, fear, and one emergency with Eloise finally force both of you to confess what has been left unsaid.
Maybe you decided too quickly. You didn't realize it until the third day.
The first day without Clark was fine. You tidied up the apartment a little, the baby slept most of the day, and you thought that maybe it was nice having the space all to yourself.
The second day started to feel strange.
The couch was empty.
There was no freshly brewed coffee in the morning.
The kitchen was clean but quiet, without the sound of Clark moving pots around.
The third day was worse.
You missed his presence already.
Not just his help, but his company.
The sound of his breathing from the other room.
The way he held the baby and spoke to her softly, as if she could understand him.
The way he glanced at you when he thought you weren't looking.
You told yourself it was pregnancy sensitivity.
Or postpartum hormones.
That you were emotional, that everything felt bigger than it really was.
But no matter how many times you repeated that to yourself, the sadness wouldn't leave.
It was a small thing, but irritating, like a pebble trapped inside your shoe.
You missed him.
And you didn't know whether it was love or habit, but you missed him.
That night, the baby cried through the early hours of the morning.
It wasn't the kind of soft cry that could be soothed with a lullaby.
It was loud.
Desperate.
The kind of cry that breaks your heart because you don't know what else to do.
You picked her up and rocked her.
You sang to her.
You nursed her.
You changed her diaper.
Nothing worked.
The baby kept crying, and you felt like you were about to cry too.
It was two in the morning.
You hadn't slept at all.
Every time you closed your eyes, she started screaming again.
Moonlight streamed through the window, illuminating your exhausted, desperate face.
You sat on the bed with the baby in your arms, and suddenly, unable to stop yourself, you started crying.
Heavy tears rolled down your cheeks and fell onto the little girl's head.
With a trembling hand, you grabbed your phone from the nightstand.
You unlocked it and searched for Clark's name.
You typed quickly, without thinking:
"Can you come over?"
But before you could send the message, you heard a noise at the window.
You looked up and saw him.
Clark was already there, floating outside your window in the blue-and-red suit he wore when he flew.
He slipped through the frame like a shadow, barely making a sound.
You stared as he stepped inside, concern written all over his face, his eyes immediately searching the baby, then you, then any sign of danger.
"What happened? Are you both okay?" he asked hurriedly, still adjusting his cape.
"The baby's fine," you said, and the moment the words left your mouth, you cried even harder. "She won't stop crying, Clark. I don't know what to do. I barely got her to sleep a little while ago, and now she's awake again. I think I'm not good at this."
Clark smiled.
It wasn't a mocking smile.
It wasn't pity.
It was the kind of gentle smile that says, It's okay. Everything's going to be alright.
He approached slowly so he wouldn't startle you and wrapped his arms around you.
He held you carefully, as if you were a crystal glass that could shatter.
One hand rested against your back while the other gently stroked the baby's head.
"It's part of the process," he said in his calm voice. "Babies cry. They don't know how to talk, they don't know how to point at things. They only know how to cry when something feels wrong. It's not your fault."
"But I don't know what's wrong with her," you sobbed against his chest.
"I'm going to buy everything that might help," Clark said. "A wipe warmer, some drops for colic, one of those pacifiers everyone recommends, a white-noise machine. Don't worry. I'll take care of it."
And while he said that, he was already thinking about everything he had read online during those two weeks, every product parents recommended for babies who cried for no apparent reason.
Clark pulled away just enough to cup your cheeks in his large, gentle hands.
Slowly, with his thumbs, as if he had all the time in the world, he wiped away your tears.
His fingers were warm, and the touch made you feel a little less alone.
"Actually," he said, "I'll leave when she starts sleeping through the night and you're able to get proper rest. Until then, I'm staying."
You looked at him, your eyes still wet.
Meanwhile, the baby had calmed down a little, only whimpering softly against your chest.
You knew Clark was doing a lot for you.
Maybe too much.
And it hurt to say it, but you said it anyway.
"But it's not your responsibility. You're only the donor."
Clark nodded because it was true.
He was only the donor.
But he was also something more.
Something he didn't dare say out loud.
The father.
The man hopelessly in love with you.
"But I'm your friend," he said instead, "and I'd love to help you. Really. Not because I feel obligated. Because I want to."
That word—friend—settled in your chest like a warm coat in winter.
It wasn't what you might have wanted to hear.
But it was exactly what you needed in that moment.
Someone who would stay without asking for anything in return.
You hugged him, squeezing the baby safely between the two of you, and Clark closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
I wish this moment would never end.
I wish I could stay like this forever.
Clark guided you gently back to bed.
First, he made sure the baby was completely asleep and settled her into her bassinet with a small blanket wrapped around her.
Then he returned to you.
"Let me check your incision," he said.
Even though it made you a little embarrassed, you nodded because you knew he only wanted to help.
You lay back against the mattress and lifted your shirt slightly.
Clark knelt beside the bed and, with extreme care, examined the C-section scar with the tips of his fingers.
It was pink.
Healing well.
No signs of infection.
"It's better than last week," he said quietly, almost as if he were speaking to himself.
He took the opportunity to use his special vision, just in case there was something that couldn't be seen with the naked eye.
Everything looked fine.
Clark also started hugging you more.
At first, they were quick hugs, the kind people give when saying hello or goodbye.
But then they became longer.
Tighter.
More necessary.
He knew you were still sensitive from the C-section, that sometimes your back hurt or you felt tired for no reason.
And he had discovered that when he hugged you, you relaxed.
That your body softened against his, as if his arms were the only place where you could finally lower your guard.
So he started hugging you for no reason.
In the kitchen, while you waited for the food to heat up.
In the living room, while the baby napped.
By the entrance, before he went out to buy something.
And you, without thinking too much about it, leaned into his chest.
Closing your eyes and resting your head against his shoulder had become a habit.
And many times, without even realizing it, you fell asleep like that.
Standing.
Wrapped in Clark’s arms.
He would feel you grow heavier against him, hear your breathing become slower and deeper, and then he would carefully carry you to the couch or the bed.
He would lay you down gently, cover you with a blanket, and stay there for a while, watching you sleep.
He used those moments to stroke your hair, running his fingers through your strands as if they were silk.
It was his favorite moment of the day.
When you didn’t have to pretend anything.
When you didn’t have to be strong.
When you were just you, sleeping peacefully, and he could love you without anyone seeing.
That was when Clark realized that maybe Clark Kent could have the life he had always longed for.
The life of a normal man.
A home.
A woman waiting for him.
A daughter who smiled at him when he came back from work.
The kind of life people had in movies, with family dinners and unhurried weekends.
And he could hide it.
He could keep being Superman when the world needed him, and still come home before dawn.
He could have both.
Because seeing you there, with the baby in your arms, was enough to make him want to try everything.
But he was afraid.
That fear wouldn’t leave, no matter how hard he pushed it away.
It was like a shadow following him everywhere.
And it wasn’t a small fear.
It was a large, heavy fear that tightened around his chest when he least expected it.
The little girl was growing.
Every day, she was stronger.
More alert.
More beautiful.
She learned how to smile.
How to crawl.
And as he watched her grow, he thought about all the terrible things that could happen.
A villain discovering he had a daughter.
Someone following them to your apartment.
The little girl inheriting his powers and not knowing how to control them.
Hurting herself.
Or worse, hurting someone else by accident.
Those images haunted him at night, when everything was dark and his mind refused to stop spinning.
One day, without saying anything, Clark made a decision.
He went back to his apartment.
It wasn’t a goodbye.
It wasn’t a fight.
It wasn’t a door slammed shut.
It was an, “I’m going home to sleep, I’ll be back tomorrow,” that turned into, “I stayed behind to take care of a few things, I’ll come by over the weekend.”
And then into an entire week without him crossing your doorway.
You didn’t say anything to him, because what could you say?
It was his home.
He had every right to be there.
But you missed him.
You missed him the way people miss the sun in winter.
The bed felt bigger and colder.
The empty couch seemed to stare back at you accusingly.
The baby turned her head toward the door every time she heard a sound, as if she were waiting to see him walk in.
And so did you.
Even if you refused to admit it.
You knew he had to keep living his life.
You couldn’t keep him locked inside your apartment forever.
It wasn’t fair.
Besides, you started thinking things that hurt.
What if he truly loved someone else?
What if, someday, he met a woman who didn’t have a recent C-section scar and a crying baby at two in the morning?
What if he wasn’t afraid of anything with someone else?
And then forgot about you?
That thought pierced your chest like a thorn.
You tried to pull it out, but it kept coming back again and again.
You shouldn’t be angry if that happens, you told yourself.
He was only a donor.
He wasn’t your boyfriend.
He wasn’t your husband.
He hadn’t promised you anything.
He was just a friend who had been very generous.
And if one day he fell in love with someone else and left, you would have to accept it.
You would have to smile and wish him the best.
Even if your whole world collapsed inside you.
Even if you didn’t want that.
Even if you wanted the exact opposite.
When the little girl turned seven months old, you went back to work.
Not at the Daily Planet.
Not yet.
You worked from home.
Editing articles.
Correcting drafts.
Sending emails to journalists so they would rewrite entire paragraphs.
It was tedious work, invisible work, but someone had to do it.
Perry valued your work because it was still excellent, even if you were doing it from the dining table with the baby crawling between your feet.
He called you once a week to ask how you were, and he always ended up saying, “Whenever you want to come back, your position is here.”
That made you feel good.
It reminded you that you weren’t just a mother.
You were also an editor.
You also had a life.
Clark, for his part, didn’t disappear completely.
He was still present, but in a different way.
On Fridays, after work, he knocked on the door.
He didn’t knock loudly.
He didn’t make noise with the knocker.
Just two gentle taps with his knuckles, as if he didn’t want to disturb you.
You opened the door and he was there, with a tired but sincere smile, his hands full of things.
He picked up the little girl immediately.
He took her into his arms as if it were the most natural thing in the world, lifted her above his head, and the baby let out a contagious laugh.
A laugh that made even the plants in the apartment want to dance.
The little girl knew him very well.
She recognized his scent, his voice, the tickle of his beard when he brought her close to his cheek.
And Clark loved that child with an intensity he could barely contain.
His entire face lit up when she grabbed one of his fingers with her tiny hand.
You hesitated whenever you watched him holding her.
Whenever you saw him laughing with her, spinning her in the air, blowing raspberries against her little belly.
Something moved inside you.
Something you didn’t know how to name.
You wanted him there every night.
Not just on Fridays.
Not just once in a while.
You wanted him every day.
Every hour.
Every minute.
But you knew that wouldn’t happen.
You couldn’t ask that of him.
It wasn’t fair.
And besides, what were you supposed to say?
Stay with me because I can’t bear it when you leave?
It sounded insane.
It sounded like someone in love.
Clark looked at you and smiled.
That quiet smile of his, the one that always disarmed you.
But there was something in his eyes too.
Something you didn’t know how to read.
Something that seemed to say, I miss you too, but in a language neither of you dared to speak.
He never arrived empty-handed.
He brought gifts for the little girl.
A new rattle.
A cardboard book with animals.
A soft stuffed toy the baby sucked on until it was soaked with drool.
And for you, dessert.
Always something different.
Flan.
Rice pudding.
A slice of apple pie.
Bread pudding.
Or sometimes, when it wasn’t dessert, he brought flowers.
A small bouquet, the kind sold on the corner, tied with a simple ribbon.
You placed them in a glass cup because you didn’t have a vase, and you looked at them for days, until they withered.
You never said anything to him.
But every time you saw those flowers, your chest filled with something warm and sweet.
And then, as if it were nothing, Clark stayed.
He stayed to clean up the kitchen.
He washed the dishes from lunch, wiped down the counter, put the milk back in the fridge.
Or he went to pick up something from the dry cleaner’s that you had left there because you hadn’t had time to go.
Or he fixed the squeaky closet door.
Or changed a lightbulb.
Always with an excuse.
Always with something to do.
Because the truth was that he looked for any reason to come back to you.
Any excuse to be near you.
He didn’t know how to tell you.
He didn’t dare stay completely.
But he couldn’t leave entirely either.
So he lived in that middle place.
That limbo of Fridays, desserts, and flowers.
And you let him.
Because even though you never said it, you also looked for excuses to make him stay a little longer.
Just a little longer.
Always a little longer.
Until the night grew late and he said, “Well, I should go,” and put his shoes on by the entrance.
And you, sitting on the couch with the baby asleep on your chest, could only manage to say, “Take care.”
When what you really wanted to say was, Don’t go.
You found a caregiver to look after little Eloise.
That was the girl’s name.
Eloise.
A soft name, like something from a fairytale princess, one you had chosen because it sounded beautiful and because you didn’t know anyone else with that name.
Clark had nodded when you told him.
And later, when she was already a few months old and you called her by name, he would say, “Eloise,” in a voice so tender it was as if the name melted in his mouth.
The caregiver was an older woman, the kind with gray hair gathered into a bun and hands that were soft but firm.
Her name was Rosa, and she had years of experience taking care of babies.
She had raised five children of her own and nine grandchildren, so she knew more about diapers and colic than all the books in the world.
Clark found her after interviewing seven people.
He investigated her without her knowing.
He used his hearing to listen to her conversations from far away and his eyes to see if she was hiding anything bad.
He made sure she was truly a good woman, not just someone who appeared to be one.
And Rosa was.
She arrived on time every morning, wearing her white apron and her grandmotherly smile, and stayed with Eloise while you went to work.
The baby loved her from the first day, maybe because Rosa smelled like bread and lavender soap, or maybe because babies know how to recognize good people.
So you went back to the Daily Planet.
On the first day, you woke up nervous, as if it were your first day at work instead of your return after many months away.
You put on a shirt that fit you well, a pair of pants you could finally button again, and stared at yourself in the mirror for a long while.
“I’m the same person I was before,” you told yourself. “I’m a good editor. I can do this.”
You kissed Eloise on the forehead, left a bottle ready for Rosa, and walked out the door with your heart pounding in your chest.
But the first day wasn’t what you expected.
You arrived at the Daily Planet, and the smell of paper, ink, and old coffee hit you like a hug from a friend you hadn’t seen in a long time.
Typewriters clattered.
Phones rang.
Journalists rushed from one side to the other with papers in their hands.
Everything was the same.
Everything was exactly as you remembered it.
Lois welcomed you the way she always did, with a big smile and a shove to the shoulder.
“Finally! I was getting tired of being the only sensible woman in this place,” she said, and you laughed because Lois was anything but sensible.
Jimmy hugged you, a strong and quick hug, and then looked you in the eye and said, “Where’s the baby? I miss her more than I miss you.”
And you laughed again.
They both knew your little girl, and they loved her.
They had visited her several times.
They had fought over who got to hold her longer.
They had bought her dresses and stuffed animals and books she still couldn’t read.
They were family too.
They made coming back feel safe.
But then Perry called you into his office.
It wasn’t his usual desk anymore, because now he had a bigger office, with windows overlooking the street and a plant dying in the corner because no one watered it.
You sat across from him, and he smiled at you with that grumpy old-man face that, deep down, belonged to someone good.
“I have a surprise for you,” he said, and pressed a button on his phone. “Send her in.”
The door opened, and a woman walked in.
A blonde woman.
The kind of blonde who looked as if she had stepped out of a magazine, with long, shiny hair that seemed like it had been straightened that very morning.
She had green eyes, a pale green like moss after the rain, and a beautiful smile.
The kind of smile that made you want to smile too, even when you didn’t feel like it.
Perry introduced her to you.
“This is Lexie. A new editor,” he said.
And you looked at her.
Measured her from head to toe without meaning to.
And something in your stomach tightened without you knowing why.
Perry kept talking, but you were no longer fully listening.
“She’s been working with Clark these past few months,” he said, as if it were an insignificant detail. “I placed her as a staff writer first, but I think she has editor potential.”
You smiled.
You made the automatic gesture of nodding and extending your hand to greet her.
“Nice to meet you,” you said.
And your voice sounded normal, even though inside, you felt very far from normal.
Because then you remembered something.
You remembered how Clark, in the last few weeks before you returned to work, sometimes spent time on his phone with a smile.
A strange smile.
One that wasn’t for you, or for Eloise, or for anyone you knew.
He would be sitting on the couch in your apartment, the baby asleep against his chest, and suddenly his phone would vibrate.
He would look at it and let out a tiny smile, the kind that slips out before someone can stop it.
You hadn’t given it any importance then.
You thought maybe it was a message from Lois, or an article that had turned out well.
But now, with Lexie standing in front of you, blonde and beautiful and smiling, Clark’s smile took on another meaning.
Clark had never mentioned there was someone new.
Of course, he didn’t have to.
You weren’t a couple.
You didn’t owe each other anything.
He could work with whomever he wanted.
Talk to whomever he wanted.
Smile at whomever he wanted.
There was no agreement.
No promise.
No rule saying he had to tell you about every new person who showed up at the newspaper.
Although he did know you were coming back.
He knew you would return.
And still, he hadn’t said anything.
Maybe because it wasn’t important.
Maybe because it meant nothing.
Or maybe because it did mean something, and he didn’t want you to know.
You lowered your gaze for a moment.
Your shoes, black ones you had worn to feel more serious, suddenly seemed ridiculous.
You went back to your place, the desk you had left empty for so many months.
Someone had cleaned it.
There was no dust, no old papers.
Everything was tidy, as if they had been waiting for you.
But something had changed.
Lexie was seated in front of you now, at the desk across from yours, right where there had been no one before.
Now she was there, with her blonde hair and her smile and her green eyes, arranging her things as if she had belonged there all her life.
You looked at Clark.
He was standing beside his desk, a few feet away.
He saw you looking at him and smiled at you, that smile of his that used to calm you and now did something strange to your chest.
“Welcome home,” he said softly, as if nothing had changed.
As if you were still the same people you used to be.
You nodded.
“Thank you,” you said, and turned back to your chair.
But everything felt different.
More distant.
As if there were an invisible pane of glass between you and the rest of the world.
The sounds of the newsroom seemed muffled, the familiar faces blurred, and every time you looked up, Lexie was there.
Typing.
Laughing.
Leaning over to speak to someone.
And you had no right to any of it.
You had no right to feel jealous.
No right to be angry.
No right to ask Clark why he hadn’t told you anything.
Because he didn’t owe you explanations.
Because he was free to live his life.
Because you yourself had told him, through your actions, that you didn’t need him.
When he left your apartment after the birth.
When you let him pull away.
When you did nothing to keep him there.
You had told him without words that it was fine for him to leave.
And he had left.
Not completely.
But enough for there to be room now for someone else.
You watched them joke around.
Clark and Lexie.
They were standing near the coffee machine, she with a cup in her hand, he with his arms crossed.
Lexie said something.
Clark laughed.
And you saw the way he tilted his head toward her, as if to hear her better.
Inside jokes?
Jokes only the two of them knew?
The weeks she had spent working with him, those months when you hadn’t been there, had created something.
Something you hadn’t watched grow.
Something that was now right there, in front of your eyes, and you couldn’t ignore it.
You looked away.
You looked at your computer, the screen glowing white, the cursor blinking as it waited for you to write something.
Anything.
A headline.
A correction.
Whatever.
You told yourself it was foolish.
That Clark had left your apartment because maybe he felt too obligated.
Maybe he felt trapped.
Maybe he didn’t want to be the donor who stayed forever because that wasn’t what you had agreed on.
Maybe he needed his space.
His life.
His friends.
Maybe you had been a burden without realizing it, and he had simply been too kind to tell you.
Maybe Lexie was everything you couldn’t be.
Lighter.
Easier.
Without a baby waiting for her at home every night.
Without a C-section scar that still hurt sometimes.
Without a pile of diapers and bottles and sleepless nights.
So you focused on your work.
You opened your pending emails, reviewed the articles that had been assigned to you, and began correcting the first one.
It was a piece about a gas leak in the south of the city.
You read every word.
Corrected commas.
Rearranged a few paragraphs.
You did everything right.
Everything professionally.
But every two or three minutes, unable to help yourself, you looked up.
Clark was still there, talking to Lexie.
She was laughing, running a hand through her hair, and Clark was smiling.
It wasn’t a huge smile.
It wasn’t a burst of laughter.
It was a comfortable smile.
The kind someone gives to a person they know.
To someone who doesn’t make them feel self-conscious.
And from your desk, you felt like a stranger in your own place.
As if the months you had spent away had erased something that used to exist.
Something that maybe had only existed in your head.
You said nothing.
You couldn’t.
You had no right.
Clark wasn’t yours.
He never had been.
He was only the friend who had donated his sperm to you.
The friend who had stayed for two weeks taking care of you.
The friend who was now smiling at another woman while you watched from far away.
And that empty feeling in your chest was nothing more than the memory of something that had never happened.
Or that was what you tried to make yourself believe as you typed “revise” beside the article’s headline and pressed your lips together to keep a sigh from escaping.
The weeks passed.
And it wasn't easy.
You couldn't stop yourself from crying, and you hated yourself a little for it.
Because you cried in the newspaper's bathroom, with the water running so no one would hear.
You cried in your car before starting the engine.
You cried in the shower, when no one could see you.
It was stupid, you knew that.
It was stupid to cry over someone who had never been yours.
Now you had your daughter, a beautiful little girl who looked at you with those huge eyes and filled your heart in a way no one else ever could.
You couldn't compare yourself to Lexie.
You couldn't compete with her.
Because this had been your decision.
You had decided that Clark was only a donor.
You had decided that the two of you wouldn't be a couple.
You had decided that he could leave whenever he wanted.
So you had no right to feel bad about seeing him with someone else.
And yet, you felt terrible.
You felt so terrible that sometimes it was hard to breathe.
So you focused on the only thing you could control: your daughter.
Every afternoon when you got home, happiness hit you in the face the moment you opened the door.
Because Eloise would see you, stretch her little arms toward you, and make that sound that was almost "ma-ma," though she still couldn't quite pronounce the "m."
You would pick her up, hold her tightly against your chest, and for a few seconds, everything else disappeared.
Lexie disappeared.
Clark disappeared.
The office, the looks, the inside jokes—everything faded away.
There was only you and her and the baby scent that had soaked into your clothes.
Clark still came to your apartment.
But not like before.
Not with the same frequency.
He showed up on Fridays, sometimes Wednesdays, always with some excuse.
He brought something for Eloise: a new book, a toy, a blanket.
But you no longer looked at him the way you used to.
Before, whenever he walked through the door, your whole face lit up.
Now you greeted him with a short, "Hi," and went back to whatever you were doing.
You didn't offer him coffee.
You didn't sit beside him on the couch.
You didn't rest your head on his shoulder while the baby slept.
You had built yourself a shell.
An invisible suit of armor that wouldn't let him get close.
He noticed, of course.
Clark noticed everything.
But he didn't say anything, because he didn't know what to say either.
And the worst part was that you had started cutting phone calls short too.
When he called, you let it ring a few times before answering with a curt, "What is it?"
You talked only about what was necessary.
The baby.
The caregiver.
Some paperwork.
And when there was nothing left to discuss, you would say, "Alright, see you..." and hang up before he could answer.
You didn't want to hear his voice any longer than necessary.
Because if you listened to his voice, your heart softened.
And you couldn't allow that.
Not again.
You felt guilty.
Terribly guilty.
Because Clark hadn't done anything wrong.
He had simply continued living his life.
He had simply gone to work and met someone new.
He wasn't a traitor.
He hadn't betrayed you because he had never belonged to you in the first place.
Because you had never been together.
And yet, you treated him as if he had stabbed you in the back.
Every time you hung up without a proper goodbye, you stared at your phone afterward and thought:
I'm an idiot.
But you couldn't stop yourself.
Something stronger than you kept pushing you away from him.
Kept telling you to protect yourself.
To avoid giving him the chance to hurt you.
Even though he wasn't even trying to hurt you.
At the Daily Planet, no one besides the people closest to you knew that Clark was Eloise's father.
To the rest of the newspaper, you were simply a woman with a baby.
The father was a mystery.
An anonymous donor.
A "none of anyone's business."
Lois and Jimmy protected the secret as if it were treasure.
They never mentioned it out loud.
Never made comments that could raise suspicion.
So when Lexie arrived, she had absolutely no idea what had happened between you and Clark.
She didn't know he had slept on your couch.
She didn't know he had bought the crib.
She didn't know he had wiped your tears away in the middle of the night.
To Lexie, you were simply the editor who had returned after maternity leave.
And Clark was simply her coworker, the one who had shown her how everything worked during those first few months.
But Lexie, without knowing any of that, began making you feel awful.
You didn't know whether it was intentional or simply her personality, but her words pricked at you like tiny needles.
The kind you barely notice until your skin is covered in punctures.
One afternoon, in the newspaper kitchen, while you were heating water for tea, she approached with her mug and her perfect smile.
"So you really have a baby?" she asked, as though she had only just found out.
You nodded, smiling as politely as possible.
"Yes. Her name is Eloise," you said.
Because she was your daughter, and you were proud of her, even if talking about her with Lexie made you uncomfortable.
Lexie nodded, wearing an expression that suggested she was thinking something over.
"Hmm... and if you have a baby, wouldn't it be better to stay home?" she asked. "I mean... I feel like women who become mothers aren't as dedicated to work as they used to be because they have other things to focus on."
She said it softly.
As if it were a sincere concern.
As if she were doing you a favor by saying it.
You looked at her.
You felt the blood rush into your face, but you refused to let it show.
You stood there with your mug in your hand and took a slow breath before answering.
"I used to think the same thing," you said, with a calmness you didn't actually feel, "until Perry called and told me he needed me back. I guess he still hasn't found anyone better than me."
Then you smiled.
But it was a sharp smile.
The kind that cuts.
And you walked away before she could respond.
You didn't want to hear another word.
You moved quickly down the hallway, your eyes burning.
You didn't want to cry in front of her.
You didn't want to give her that satisfaction.
You entered the women's restroom, locked the door behind you, and leaned against the wall while taking deep breaths.
The tears came on their own.
Just like they always did these days.
You wiped at your eyes with the back of your hand, but more tears followed.
"I'm a professional," you repeated to yourself.
"What that woman said is ridiculous."
"I'm good at what I do."
"I have a daughter, and I'm good at what I do."
But tears never listened to reason.
That was when your phone rang.
It vibrated in your pocket, and you pulled it out quickly, assuming it would be Lois or Jimmy.
But it was Rosa's number.
“Rosa? Yes?” you said, trying not to let it sound like you'd been crying.
Rosa's voice was worried.
She didn't waste time getting to the point.
The baby had a fever.
Not a very high one, but she was restless, crying more than usual, and Rosa thought she should be seen by a doctor.
Your heart dropped straight to the floor.
You hung up without a proper goodbye, shoved your phone back into your pocket, and hurried out of the restroom, almost running.
You went straight to Perry's office.
You didn't look around.
You didn't notice Clark and Lexie in the distance, laughing about something again.
You didn't care.
Nothing mattered more than your daughter at that moment.
You reached Perry's door and knocked.
“Come in,” he called from inside.
You entered and explained what was happening, your voice shaky but determined.
Eloise had a fever.
Rosa was worried.
You needed to leave.
Perry looked at you over the rim of his glasses, frowned for a moment, then nodded.
“Go,” he said. “You've been doing good work since you came back. Don't worry about things here.”
You thanked him and left without looking back.
As you walked down the hallway toward the exit, you heard hurried footsteps behind you.
“What happened?”
Clark's voice.
He had followed you.
Of course he had.
He always noticed when something was wrong, even when you didn't want him to.
You stopped.
Closed your eyes for a second.
You could have told him the truth.
You could have accepted his help.
You could have let yourself fall into his arms the way you had so many times before.
But no.
Something inside you hardened.
Hardened like stone.
No.
No, no, no.
You couldn't keep doing this.
You couldn't keep depending on him.
You couldn't keep needing him.
You couldn't keep feeling like he was the only person capable of holding you together when everything was falling apart.
Because he wasn't yours.
He belonged to no one.
Or maybe he belonged to Lexie.
Or maybe to whoever he wanted.
But not to you.
“Nothing,” you said, your voice sounding angrier than you intended.
But angry was better than broken.
Angry was better than letting him see how badly you were falling apart.
Clark took a step closer.
His face was full of concern, the kind of expression he wore whenever something happened to you and he didn't know how to fix it.
“But something happened. I saw you leave Perry's office with—”
You paused.
Took a deep breath.
And in that moment, you understood that this wasn't fair.
He didn't owe you anything.
You had no right to treat him badly just because you were hurting.
Clark had been good to you.
Kinder than anyone had ever been.
And you were repaying him with silence and slammed doors.
But even then, you couldn't let him get close.
Not again.
Because if he got close, you would fall again.
And falling a second time hurt too much.
You looked into his eyes.
Those blue eyes you had always liked.
Those blue eyes you still liked.
“Eloise has a fever. I'm going home,” you said.
More calmly this time.
But with a distance that hit him like a punch.
“I'll come with you,” Clark said instantly.
He didn't hesitate for even a second.
His body was already moving toward the exit as if accompanying you was the most natural thing in the world.
But you stopped him.
You lifted a hand between the two of you, as if that gesture alone could keep him away.
“No,” you said.
And the word came out stronger than you intended.
“You keep living your life. I'll take care of my daughter.”
My daughter.
Not ours.
It wasn't a mistake.
You did it on purpose.
Because you needed him to understand that boundaries existed.
That the two of you had created them.
And that they had to be respected.
You walked away.
You headed for the exit without looking back.
But if you had looked back, you would have seen Clark standing in the middle of the hallway with his arms hanging limply at his sides and his expression shattered.
You would have seen him drag a hand over his face as if sadness could be wiped away like dust.
You would have seen him open his mouth to say something.
And then close it again because he couldn't find the words.
You would have seen a man in love.
Alone.
Standing in an empty hallway.
Watching the woman he loved and his daughter walk away from him without being able to do anything to stop them.
Because he knew he had no right.
Because he felt guilty too.
Because every night he told himself the same thing.
You can't put them in danger.
You can't love them the way you want to.
Keeping your distance is what's best for them.
And now that you were giving him that distance, it hurt as though someone had ripped a piece of his chest away.
But you didn't look back.
You walked out of the Daily Planet, the afternoon sun warming your face, and got into your car.
And as you drove home, toward Eloise, you cried again.
You cried because your daughter had a fever.
You cried because of what you'd said to Clark.
You cried because you missed him.
You cried because you didn't know how to be angry and heartbroken at the same time.
You cried until there were no tears left.
You arrived home with your heart lodged in your throat.
You climbed the stairs without even feeling your feet, your keys clenched tightly in your hand so no one would see them shaking.
You opened the door, and the first thing you did was search for Eloise.
Ready to run to her.
Ready to pick her up.
Ready to hold her until the fever broke.
But you didn't see her.
She wasn't in her bassinet.
She wasn't on the blanket where you usually let her crawl.
She wasn't anywhere.
The silence frightened you even more.
“Rosa,” you called, your voice trembling.
The caregiver appeared from the kitchen wearing a calm smile that made no sense.
She didn't look worried.
She didn't look frightened.
She looked calm.
Far too calm.
“She’s already with her father,” Rosa said, as though it were the most normal thing in the world.
“Mr. Clark calmed her down.”
You froze.
Clark.
He had arrived first.
Of course he had arrived first.
He must have used his speed to get there before you.
To be there while you were still in your car, driving through your tears.
He had flown.
Or run.
Or whatever it was he did to move faster than any normal human being.
And instead of feeling angry, you felt a wave of relief so intense it almost hurt.
Because he was there.
Because he had come.
Because he always came.
You entered Eloise's room quietly.
The door was slightly open, and you pushed it wider with your fingertips.
There was Clark.
Standing beside the crib.
His eyes fixed on the baby.
He saw you enter, and his face immediately filled with sadness.
Not guilt.
Not pride.
Only sadness.
As if he already knew you wouldn't welcome his help, but had given it anyway.
“I heard her heartbeat from the Planet,” he said softly, almost whispering.
“It was too fast.
Much too fast.”
You looked at him, not fully understanding.
Rosa hadn't realized it, but things had been more serious than they appeared.
The temperature had been very high.
Dangerously high.
The kind of fever that could become dangerous in a baby.
The kind that could rise quickly and cause harm before anyone noticed.
Clark had arrived just in time.
“I... used the cold to help regulate it,” he said, gesturing gently toward Eloise.
“My breath. Ice. Things like that.”
And she fell asleep.
He looked at her for another moment.
Those eyes of his swollen from worrying.
From watching.
From feeling too much.
Then he carefully settled her into the crib and tucked a thin blanket around her so she wouldn't be too cold or too warm.
The baby took a deep, peaceful breath.
As if the danger had never existed.
Clark turned toward you.
He took a step forward.
Just one.
With the intention of getting closer.
Maybe to hug you.
Maybe to say something.
But you lifted your hand.
And placed an invisible wall between the two of you.
“Go back to the Planet,” you said.
Your voice came out harsher than you intended.
“I can handle this on my own.”
You left the room before he could answer.
You needed air.
You needed space.
You needed not to fall apart in front of him.
In the living room, Rosa was waiting with her purse in hand, ready to leave.
You gathered what little strength you had left, wiped your face with your sleeve even though you weren't crying yet, and smiled at her.
A fake smile.
The kind that hurts because it takes so much effort to hold in place.
"See you tomorrow," you said, trying to make your voice sound normal. "Clark already calmed her down, and we'll take her to the doctor."
Rosa smiled in relief, nodding.
"That's good."
She blew a kiss into the air in farewell.
You opened the door, watched her disappear down the stairs, and when the sound of her footsteps faded away, you closed it again.
You rested your forehead against the cool wood of the door and closed your eyes.
Behind you, Clark was still there.
You could feel him.
You could feel him without looking at him, the same way you can feel someone's gaze on the back of your neck.
"I don't understand," he said.
His voice wasn't angry.
It wasn't even sad.
It was tired.
The voice of someone who had spent days, weeks, months trying to understand what had happened.
"What did I do wrong for you to treat me like this? What do you want from me?"
You turned around.
You looked at him angrily, but it was the kind of anger that hurt more than sadness.
There were so many things you wanted to tell him that they all crashed together in your throat.
You lowered your gaze to the floor because you couldn't hold his.
Your shoes—the same ones you'd worn to work that day—suddenly felt like the only real thing in the middle of all that chaos.
"You're not the problem," you said.
And your voice cracked.
"It's me. Just... go away, Clark."
Clark took a step forward.
Not a threatening step.
The step of someone who wasn't willing to leave without fighting for an answer.
"Why?" he asked.
And that single word carried more weight than any other word he'd spoken in his life.
You looked at him.
You couldn't hold it back anymore.
Tears filled your eyes, and one escaped, warm against your skin, rolling down your cheek to your chin.
"Because it was a mistake," you said.
The words barely made it out of your mouth.
A mistake.
Two words capable of changing everything.
"Eloise is the best thing that's ever happened to me in the entire world, but... having your genes..." You swallowed hard. "At first, I thought it would be the most beautiful thing in the world."
You looked at him angrily.
But it wasn't anger directed at him.
It was anger at yourself.
At your own stupidity.
At believing you could have him without actually having him.
"My God," you continued.
The words rushed out as though you were afraid time was running out.
"The only reason I even had that thought was because I liked you. Having a child with the person you're in love with is a dream. But... I can't demand anything now that Lexie is there. God, that woman is..."
You stopped.
Took a deep breath.
Tried to calm yourself.
"I can't even insult her because I'm the one who said we were nothing. That nothing would happen. That you'd only be a donor. And now I'm jealous because you acted like we were something ever since I got pregnant and..."
Your voice broke completely.
You couldn't continue.
You covered your face with your hands as if you could hide from him.
From your own words.
From everything you had just confessed.
You cried openly now.
Your shoulders trembling.
Your fingers pressed tightly against your face.
"You didn't tell me about Lexie," you managed between sobs. "And I know that's your right, and... it hurts so much. Just... please go away, Clark."
And then you felt arms wrapping around you.
His arms.
Clark hugged you.
It wasn't a hesitant hug.
It wasn't brief.
It was a full embrace.
The kind that completely surrounds you.
The kind that presses you against a warm chest and makes the entire world stop for a moment.
You cried against him, soaking his shirt with every tear you'd spent weeks holding back.
And he didn't let go.
He didn't tell you to stop crying.
He didn't tell you to calm down.
He simply held you.
One hand cradling the back of your neck.
The other resting against your back.
As if he wanted you to know that he would never let you fall.
"Are you jealous of Lexie?" he asked softly.
His voice was so close that you felt his chin brush the top of your head.
You didn't answer.
You couldn't.
All the words were gone.
But he didn't need an answer.
He already knew.
"If you had told me you wanted me to stay, I would have."
Clark's voice trembled slightly.
"I would've done it without hesitation."
You looked up at him through tear-filled eyes.
Your vision was blurry.
But you could still see him clearly.
As if the rest of the world had turned gray and only he still had color.
"You said it yourself two years ago, Clark. You didn't want anything serious."
The words came out wrapped in a knot of pain.
You had carried them for so long.
Turning them over and over in your mind.
Trying to understand them.
Trying to accept them.
Clark cupped your face in both hands.
Slowly, he wiped away your tears one by one with his thumbs.
His fingers were warm.
Gentle.
The touch made you tremble.
"I didn't want to hurt the woman I love," he said.
And those words, spoken so plainly, struck your chest like lightning.
You stared at him.
Confused.
"What?" you whispered.
Because your brain couldn't process what it had just heard.
Clark smiled.
A sad smile.
A tender smile.
The smile of someone who had waited a very long time to say something and had finally found the courage.
"I thought having a child with you would at least give me the chance to stay close to you."
His thumb brushed away another tear.
"Without having to fear someone hurting you just to find out where Superman is."
Another tear.
Another gentle touch.
"Just to stay close to you."
You stared at him, eyes wide.
"What?" you repeated.
Because there was no other word left in your mind.
Clark laughed.
A small laugh.
A nervous laugh.
The laugh of someone risking everything.
"If you tell me to stay right now, I will."
His voice softened.
"Because there hasn't been a single woman I've loved since the day you walked into the Planet who wasn't you."
He paused.
Swallowed hard.
"And Lexie is nothing more than another woman among many."
His eyes locked onto yours.
Blue.
Deep.
Like entire oceans.
"But you're the woman I've loved."
The words settled between you.
Heavy.
Certain.
Real.
"And if you want me to stay, I'll do everything I can to protect you. I'll never let anyone hurt you. I won't be afraid of having a family anymore."
His voice almost broke.
"But I need to know."
He waited.
Silence stretched between the two of you.
Growing larger.
"Do you want me to stay?"
You looked at him.
And you cried.
But these weren't tears of sadness anymore.
They were the kind of tears that come when something broken for a very long time finally begins to heal.
Clark saw you crying.
And something in his face dimmed slightly.
As if he thought you were going to say no.
As if he were already bracing himself for the impact.
But you weren't going to say no.
You could never say no.
"Don't leave again," you whispered.
Barely louder than a breath.
And you threw yourself into his arms as if your life depended on it.
You clung to him.
His arms.
His back.
His shirt.
Everything.
Clark let out a breath.
Not an ordinary breath.
A huge one.
A breath of relief.
The kind released by someone who has been holding it for years.
He took your face in his hands again with a tenderness so overwhelming it nearly broke you apart.
And he kissed you.
Not on the lips.
Not yet.
He kissed your tears.
Your wet cheeks.
Your closed eyelids.
He kissed every tear as if he could erase them with his mouth.
And while he kissed you, he spoke between each kiss.
His voice broken.
But steady.
"No. I'm not leaving."
A kiss.
"I'm not leaving anymore."
Another kiss.
"Never again."
Another.
"I'm staying."
His forehead rested against yours.
"With you."
A kiss.
"With Eloise."
Another.
"I'm staying for as long as you'll let me."
His voice shook.
"And if you throw me out, I'll come back."
A kiss against your temple.
"And if you push me away, I'll crawl back."
Another.
"But I'm not leaving."
His eyes closed.
"Not again."
His hand trembled against your cheek.
"Not you."
And you held him tighter through your tears and uneven breaths.
And for the first time in months—
For the first time in so many months—
You felt like you could breathe.
Because Clark was there.
Because Clark was staying.
Because Clark—the good, quiet man who had loved you in silence for so long—had finally said everything he needed to say.
the audience erupted into an applause when sally stepped out onto the stage.
you took a breath backstage, someone from your pr team taking notice. “you’ll do fine.”
“a little nervous is all,” you smoothed a hand over your outfit. you were wearing a fitted black wrap-style top with a deep v-neckline and bell sleeves that brushed just past your wrists. it had gold floral embroidery climbed across one side of the top with a pair of dark wash jeans of the same embroidery, but the opposite side. you paired it with black slingback heels, gold hoop earrings, and your hair was a blowout that was put in the prettiest half up half down.
“five seconds.” the producer yelled, causing your stomach to flutter. you could perform infront of 80,000 people and sing without a problem.
interviews? entirely different story.
“ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the incredible—“ the crowd practically drowned out the rest.
“go.” the curtains parted, the applause grew louder. and then there she was, sally jessy raphael herself — standing center stage with a bright smile on her face.
you laughed despite yourself as you walked onto the stage. sally met you halfway, wrapping you in a hug. after, she grabbed your hand and you both sat down, waiting for the audience to settle.
“it’s so good to finally have you here.” sally nodded.
“thank you, it’s so good to be here.” you smiled.
sally turned to the audience, “i have to tell y’all something.”
you covered your face. “oh dear.” the audience laughed.
“i have been trying to get this interview for a year,” the audience laughed harder. “it’s true! y/n you’re such a successful young lady..”
you dropped your hands, “thank you, you make it seem like i’m hiding.” you giggled.
“you disappear for months at a time.” sally raised her brows.
“that’s called living.” the crowd erupted.
“see? this is why the people love you.” you shook your head smiling at her statement. the interview started easily enough.
your newest album, touring, songwriting, your interests outside of music, even silly stories from when you were younger. this part was easy,
until sally crossed her leg over the other and gave you a look. immediately, you were suspiscous.
“ugh, just spit it out.” you giggled, causing her to glance at her cards.
“what about dating?” the audience cheered.
you leaned your head back, “no.” causing sally to laugh “oh, yes.”
no.
“everyone wants to know.” you turned to the crowd, seeing faces full of grins. “y’all are positive?” they ‘yes’d in unison, causing you to groan and cover your face once again.
“y/n..” sally started, “you write some of the most romantic songs in music.”
“that doesn’t mean anything.” you dropped your hands, smiling.
“fine. let me ask differently.” she narrowed her eyes toward you. “are you seeing anyone?”
you shook your head. “no.”
“no special someone?”
“no.”
“do these men have eyes?” the audience roared as she turned to the crowd, causing you to giggle as well.
“sally.”
“yes?”
“you’re determined.” you said, causing her to nod. you sighed dramatically then shrugged.
“no.”
a collective aww echoed through the audience. sally blinked. “really?”
“really.”
“why?”
you turned your head to the crowd, then back to her. then you smiled, a little sheepishly.
“i’ve never had much luck.” you heard a loud gasp.
sally looked genuniely shocked. “what do you mean? you’re one of the most beautiful people i’ve ever seen.”
there was pause for a moment, causing you to think.
“i think people fall in love with who they think i am, not who i actually am. and when they meet me, and they’re disappointed to find out i’m just a person who does the same things a person would.” you said with a giggle behind it.
sally looked at you thoughtfully. “that’s lonely.”
“sometimes.” you offered a small smile, “but i’d rather be alone than with someone who doesn’t really wanna love me for me.”
the audience applauded. a lot. it made sally smile.
“so.. what kind of man do you want?” she leaned forward a bit.
you laughed shyly, looking down for a moment.
“someone who’s funny, who’s kind, who doesn’t feel the need to impress everybody.” you looked back up.
sally smiled “mm.”
“and someone who is comfortable with being themselves!”
“thats a plus!!” someone in the audience yelled, causing everyone to laugh.
sally tilted her head. “so where does one find this mystery man?”
you laughed a real laugh. effortless. “if you figure it out, let me know.”
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
thousands of miles away, michael sat in a hotel suite in tokyo. the ‘bad’ tour had him halfway around the world.
the tv was on for background noise, at least that’s what the plan was. until he heard your name, causing him to look up.
now 45 minutes had passed, and he hadn’t moved not once.
his elbows rested on his knees, eyes fixed on the screen, watching you answer questions with a mixture of honesty and humor that was effortless. when sally asked about your love life, michael found himself paying far more attention than he should have.
“i’ve never had much luck.” he heard, causing his brow to furrow.
how?
how was that possible?
the woman that was on the screen was beautiful, talented, funny, and graceful. and somehow she’d had bad luck? michael shook his head.
by the time the interview ended, he’d already developed a problem.
because now, he wanted to meet you.
and had absolutely no idea how.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
a few weeks after the interview, you’re home when your assistant, jennifer walks in holding an envelope. at first, it looks ordinary enough. cream-colored, no flashy markings, nothing that indicated that it was important enough.
she hands it over to you — no return address, just your name. the handwriting looked neat, intentional. carefully you slid a finger beneath the seal. it was a handwritten note.
then a fifth. you were sure you misunderstood. it wasn’t dramatic nor flirtatious. if anything, it was surprisingly simple.
he seen your interview, he enjoyed it, thought you seem genuine. wanted to wish you well. that was all.
“who’s it from?” jennifer asked, a brief pause.
“…michael jackson.” you said, sounding more a question than a statement.
she blinked. “the michael jackson?”
you handed the letter to her.
“wow.” her eyes widened
“i know, right?” that seemed to be the only words you could utter. what exactly were you supposed to do with this?
it wasn’t a business proposal, it wasn’t a request for collaboration. simply just kind.
you were still in shock. out of all the things he could’ve been doing, he was watching your interview. for some reason, that detail stuck with you the most.
“are you going to answer him?” jennifer pulled you out of the trance.
“yes, maybe.” you laughed, a nervous one.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
the replied arrived 12 days later. 12 days too long for him.
michael was sitting in his hotel suite when bill knocked on the door. “you got mail.”
he opened the door “thank you,” he stepped to the side, allowing bill to walk in.
“quincy said it was a reply to a note you’d sent?” his ears perked. “right.” he said quickly.
“what?”
“nothing..”
“michael.”
“bill.” bill shook his head, heading out.
oh, how eager michael was to recieve something back from you.
The set was still vibrating with music when everything changed.
“Cut! Reset for lighting—”
The director’s voice echoed across the studio, swallowed almost instantly by the bassline still thudding through the speakers. Michael stood under the hot wash of red and violet lights, dressed head-to-toe in that unmistakable red leather; sharp shoulders, sculpted lines, the costume that made him look almost unreal under camera glare. He was mid-performance mode, still half inside the character of the song, breathing slightly hard, eyes focused, intent.
Then, he saw his assistant answer his personal phone.
Michael frowned slightly, stepping back from the choreography mark. A production assistant moved to intercept it, but something in his expression stopped them. He took it.
The moment he took it from her, everything else in the room seemed to blur.
At first, he didn’t speak. Just listened.
Then his face changed, shocked and still.
The kind of stillness that spreads through someone when the ground under them disappears without warning.
“What do you mean..:” his voice broke slightly, then steadied itself again, forced calm. “No, no—tell me exactly what happened.”
A pause.
Then softer, almost whispering now:
“Y/N…”
Across the studio, someone called his name. Then again, but it was like he was already gone from the room.
When he finally hung up, he didn’t explain. Not properly, he just looked at the assistant closest to him.
“I need to go.”
“The shoot, Michael, we’re still—”
“I need to go, it’s the baby” he repeated, quieter but firmer.
And then he was moving.
No argument, no hesitation and an entourage scrambling . Just him slipping out of a world of cameras and choreography heading to his next greatest adventure.
~~~~~~~~~~~
The drive was a blur he didn’t remember in pieces, only in sensations.
The grip of the car seat under his hands, the way his heart refused to slow down. The unbearable repetition of one thought;
Not yet. Not like this. Not alone.
He sent a silent prayer “keep my girl safe and please don’t take her from me.”
Y/N hadn’t told him everything.
That part stung in a quiet way because he understood her too well. She always tried to protect him from panic, from disruption, from anything that might pull him away from work he felt responsible for. He could almost hear her voice in his head, soft and careful,
Finish the shoot first, then come home to me. I’m fine. Don’t worry.
But now she was in labour.
And she was in hospital.
And he was not there.
That was all that mattered.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Cedar Sinai was too bright.
Everything in it felt too clean for what was happening inside it, too white, too fluorescent, too indifferent to the fact that life was changing in one of its rooms.
Michael didn’t stop for security properly. People turned their heads as he passed, recognition blooming slowly, disbelief following right after, but he was already moving too fast to be anything but a man on a mission.
And then he saw it.
The labour ward corridor.
A nurse turned toward him, startled.
“Sir, you can’t”
“Y/N Jackson, I’m her husband,” he said immediately, breath tight, voice gentle but urgent. “Y/N. Please.”
Something in his face must have convinced her, because after a second she stepped aside.
And then he was there, at the door.
For one moment, he just stood still again.
Like his body needed time to accept that this was real.
Then he pushed it open.
~~~~~~~~~
The room was soft chaos, quiet but intense, the hum of machines, the focused calm of medical voices moving like rhythm around her.
And there she was.
Y/N.
Hair slightly damp, face flushed with effort and eyes half-lidded but searching.
And the moment she saw him, it was like the world tilted into something softer.
“What? baby?” she started, then immediately stopped, breath catching, because it hurt too much to laugh and cry at the same time. “Michael…”
He crossed the room in three steps, still in full red leather, still impossibly out of place in a room designed for something so raw and human.
And yet, he belonged there more than anything else.
He reached her bedside carefully, like she was something sacred he might break just by moving too fast.
“I’m here, girl” he said.
Her eyes flicked over him, incredulous, tear-bright.
“You’re—” she paused, breath shaking as another contraction passed through her. “What are you wearing?!.”
A weak, breathless laugh escaped him despite everything.
“I came as quickly as I could.”
“That’s not—” she squeezed his hand hard, grounding herself through pain and emotion at once. “That is so not fair, Michael. I am literally—” she gasped, then steadied, forehead dropping briefly, “—giving birth and you show up looking like that.”
He leaned closer instantly, brushing damp hair from her face.
“I didn’t choose the timing” he whispered.
Her grip tightened on him.
But she didn’t let go.
Neither did he.
~~~~~~~~~
The hours blurred after that in fragments of light and sound and held breath.
Michael never left her side.
He stayed close enough that she could always find him, his hand in hers, his voice low whenever she needed it, his presence a steady anchor through every wave of intensity. The world outside the room stopped existing entirely. The tour, the music video, the cameras, it all became irrelevant noise that didn’t matter anymore.
At one point, he leaned forward and pressed his forehead gently to hers.
“I’m so proud of you” he said quietly.
Her eyes fluttered open, tired but warm.
“You say that like I haven’t been crushing your hand for the last hour”
“I know” he whispered. “And you’re still… you’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
That made her eyes fill again, softer this time.
“Stop, applehead” she breathed. “You’re going to make me cry and they said I shouldn’t waste energy on you.”
A faint laugh escaped him, shaky and overwhelmed.
“I don’t think you’re wasting energy on me?.”
“You don’t think? I’m literally birthing a you” she teased weakly.
“Girl” he gasped scandalised.
~~~~~~~~~~
And then everything shifted again.
A different kind of urgency filled the room, not panic, but focus sharpened into finality.
Michael felt Y/N squeeze his hand tighter than she had all night.
Her eyes locked onto his.
And he understood without words.
He leaned in immediately.
“I’m here” he repeated softly. “I’m right here, baby.”
The world narrowed to her breathing, his hand in hers, the steady guidance of the room around them, and the feeling that something impossibly large was arriving.
And then, a cry.
Small. Sharp. Real.
The kind of sound that splits the world into before and after.
Michael froze completely.
Y/N let out a broken, exhausted laugh through tears.
And then the nurse moved, and a second later, a tiny, living presence was placed into the world.
Into their world.
For a moment, Michael couldn’t breathe at all.
He just stared.
Like he didn’t trust that something so small could be real.
Then Y/N whispered, barely audible “Michael…”
He looked at her first, always her first.
Her eyes were wet, smiling, exhausted beyond words.
“It’s our son.”
Something in him broke open so completely it didn’t feel like breaking, it felt like expanding.
He reached out with trembling hands, as if afraid his touch might change everything too much.
And when he finally held him, the entire universe went quiet.
Michael’s head bowed instinctively, his forehead almost touching the baby’s, his voice barely there, “Hi…”
A pause.
Then softer, shaking with emotion he wasn’t even trying to hide anymore, “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Behind him, Y/N watched through tears unable to help herself, whispering,“You came in red leather for this…”
And Michael, still completely undone, gave the smallest, most helpless smile with a giggle.
“I told you I’d be here.”
And he had.
In every way that mattered.
~~~~~~~~
The room had finally softened into something like peace.
Their son lay against Y/N’s chest, wrapped in hospital blankets that still looked too large for him, his tiny breaths steadying into a rhythm that made the whole room feel quieter just by existing. Every so often he made a small sound, barely there, almost like a reminder that he was real and not something dreamt up in the middle of exhaustion and love.
Michael stayed close to the bed, still half suspended between disbelief and awe. The red leather was gone now, folded and left behind somewhere like a version of himself that didn’t belong in this moment anymore. What remained was just him, bare arms, open expression, eyes that hadn’t left Y/N or the baby for more than a second.
He reached out carefully, almost instinctively, letting his fingertip hover near their son’s tiny hand. The baby’s fingers curled weakly at the air, and Michael smiled like that alone meant something enormous.
Y/N watched him for a moment, then spoke softly.
“You’re staring.”
“I can’t help it” he replied immediately.
Her lips curved faintly, tired but warm.
A quiet settled between them again, comfortable now, no urgency left to chase.
Then Y/N shifted slightly, adjusting him closer, and turned her head toward him in a way that made Michael look up properly.
“I’ve been thinking” she said.
Michael’s expression softened at once. “About what?”
She glanced down at their son, then back at him.
“His name.”
“Prince” Michael said gently, as if still testing the reality of it.
She nodded. “Prince.”
A pause.
“But I don’t want it to just be that.”
Michael tilted his head slightly, listening fully now.
Y/N exhaled, steady but certain.
“I want his middle name to be Michael.”
The words landed softly, but they didn’t leave.
Michael didn’t respond straight away.
His face changed in the smallest way, like something inside him had gone still just to understand what he’d heard properly.
“Michael?” he repeated quietly.
She nodded. “Yes. Michael.”
Then, softer, more certain:
“Because he’s ours, but also because I want him to carry you with him.”
That did it.
Michael’s breath caught, small, quiet, like the air had shifted direction in his chest. His eyes dropped to Prince again, as if seeing him for the first time all over again, not just as a newborn, but as something that already held meaning far beyond the room.
“I don’t know if I deserve that, baby” he said honestly.
Y/N reached for his hand immediately, gripping it firmly despite her exhaustion.
“Don’t.” she said gently, but firmly. “Don’t start that.”
A faint, emotional laugh slipped out of him as he shook his head slightly.
He looked down at Prince again, overwhelmed in a way he couldn’t hide.
“He’s so small” Michael murmured.
“I know,” Y/N whispered. “That’s why it matters.”
Michael swallowed, then looked at her—really looked at her.
And something in his expression softened completely, unguarded and real.
“Prince Michael” he said quietly, testing it.
Y/N nodded once. “Prince Michael.”
A slow smile formed on his face then, disbelieving, almost shy.
“And in my family,” he added softly, still looking at the baby, “we already have the ‘Prince’ everywhere in the Jackson line.”
He exhaled gently.
“But this feels different.”
“How?” Y/N asked quietly.
Michael looked up at her, and there was no performance in it at all, just him.
“Because you didn’t choose it from my family,” he said softly. “You chose it because of us, our legacy and because for me, I’ll always remember you announcing him as the prince of pop at your last show”
A pause.
Then, almost smiling again, “And I like that he has it twice. From both sides. From my name… and from your heart.”
Y/N’s expression softened completely at that, emotion easing into something like warmth.
“You’re very poetic for a man who arrived in full red leather” she murmured.
A soft laugh escaped him.
“Girl, you’ve just had our son and you still giving me grief. I’ve had a very dramatic day.”
That made her smile, tired but real.
Prince stirred slightly and Michael immediately leaned closer again, instinct pulling him in.
“He’s really here” he whispered again.
Y/N nodded. “So are you.”
Michael didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he leaned in and pressed a slow, careful kiss to her lips, longer this time, like he needed her to feel it fully.
“I love you, thank you for our son” he whispered.
“I know” she replied softly. “You showed up in red leather, if that’s not love, I don’t know what is.”
A faint laugh broke through him again, but it faded into something quieter as he looked back at their son.
Prince let out a small sound, and Michael gently rested his hand over the blanket again, protective without even thinking.
“Prince Michael” he said again, softer now, almost like a prayer.
Y/N watched him for a moment, then smiled through her exhaustion.
“He’s going to know exactly who you are.”
Michael nodded slowly.
“And he’ll know exactly who you are too” he said.
Then, after a pause, still looking at the tiny life between them “And he’ll never have to wonder where he comes from or how wanted he is.”
The room stayed quiet after that.
But it didn’t feel empty.
It felt full.
Like everything they were, everything they’d been, had finally found a place to rest.
~~~~~~~~<<<
The hospital room had shifted again as night settled in.
The bright clinical edges of the day softened under dimmed lamps, everything quieter now, the machines, the footsteps in the corridor, even the distant city outside Cedar Sinai as if it had agreed, temporarily, to keep its distance.
Y/N had drifted in and out of sleep, exhausted in that deep, bone-heavy way only labour leaves behind. Prince was now swaddled and resting in Michael’s arms, still impossibly small, still making those faint, instinctive sounds that made Michael keep looking at his face like he needed to confirm the miracle hadn’t vanished.
And Michael… had not moved far.
He sat in the chair beside Y/N’s bed at first, then on the edge of it, then eventually, carefully on the mattress beside her when she tugged his hand weakly without even opening her eyes.
“Stay, applehead” she had murmured.
So he did.
Now he was there properly, one arm resting protectively over her hip, while the other held their son.
He wasn’t sleeping.
Not even close.
Every few minutes, he would lean forward slightly, just to check Prince was still breathing the way he should. Then he would look back at Y/N, as if she might disappear if he stopped paying attention for too long.
Y/N finally cracked one eye open.
“You’re doing it again” she whispered.
Michael blinked. “Doing what?”
“Watching us like we’re going to float away.”
A faint, guilty smile touched his face.
“I just—” he paused, softer now, “I don’t think my brain has caught up yet.”
Y/N shifted slightly, wincing a little before settling again. “Mine hasn’t either and I birthed him.”
That earned a quiet laugh from him small, tired, affectionate.
He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her face.
“You did so well, my strong beautiful girl” he said, more serious now.
Her expression softened at that, but she didn’t answer straight away. Instead, she let her eyes drift toward the bassinet.
“He looks like you,” she murmured.
Michael shook his head immediately. “No. He looks like you.”
Y/N gave him a look.
“Both of us then.”
“Fine,” he countered gently.
That made her smile despite herself.
~~~~~~~
A quiet settled again, but it wasn’t empty it was full of everything that had just changed shape in their lives, something they had spend nearly decades waiting for.
After a moment, Y/N spoke again, softer.
“Are you going to sit there all night?”
Michael glanced at her, then back at Prince.
“Yes.”
“Michael.”
“Yes?”
“You’re not security.”
“I feel like I am now.”
That made her laugh quietly, then wince slightly again, which immediately made him lean closer.
“Careful baby”
“I’m fine,” she reassured him. “Just sore, not dying.”
He studied her for a second.
“You just had a baby” he said.
“Yes” she replied. “And I can still move.”
A pause.
Then Michael softened again, his thumb brushing her hand.
“I don’t want to miss anything” he admitted quietly.
That one landed differently.
Y/N’s expression changed, gentler now, understanding him underneath the worry.
“You won’t” she said softly.
He looked at her.
“How do you know?”
Because she didn’t hesitate.
“Because I’m not going anywhere” she said simply. “And neither is he.”
That seemed to settle something in him, even if only a little.
But then his gaze drifted again to their son’s face.
“He’s so small” Michael whispered, almost like it was still the only sentence that made sense.
Y/N followed his gaze.
“I know” she said.
“And we’ll take him home soon” he added.
“Yes.”
“And he’ll hear music” Michael continued, voice softer now, more distant in thought, “and see trees and light, animals and have a childhood… and he’ll know it’s normal.”
Y/N smiled faintly. “Normal for us, maybe.”
A small laugh escaped him.
Then his expression softened again, more emotional than before.
“Neverland” he said quietly.
Y/N looked at him. “What about it?”
Michael hesitated, then glanced between her and the baby.
“I want him to grow up there” he admitted.
There was no hesitation in Y/N’s response.
“I know, that’s our home. I know we talked about somewhere else, but I know we are staying” she said simply.
That surprised him slightly.
“You do?”
She nodded.
“You’ve always talked about it like it’s… a feeling more than a place,” she said. “Like it’s something you build for people you love.”
Michael swallowed, looking down at their son again.
“I want it to be safe” he said.
“It will be” Y/N replied.
A pause.
Then, softer “Because you’ll make it safe.”
That made him quiet again.
He leaned forward slightly, resting his forehead briefly against her hand just for a second, like he needed grounding.
When he pulled back, his eyes were a little brighter than before.
“I keep thinking about his name and how long we’ve waited for him” he said.
Y/N smiled faintly. “Our little Prince.”
He nodded.
“Our little Prince” he repeated, like it was still settling into him properly.
Then, quieter, “I hope he knows how wanted he was and is.”
Y/N looked at him for a long moment before answering.
“He will” she said gently. “Because you’ll tell him and we’ll show him.”
A silence followed warm, steady, no longer rushed by anything.
Prince made a small sound, shifting slightly in his sleep.
Michael immediately looked down again.
Of course he did.
Y/N watched him, then whispered:
“You’re not sleeping tonight, are you.”
He shook his head without looking away.
“No.”
A pause.
Then, softer “I think I’m just going to watch him for a while.”
Y/N’s voice turned fond.
“You’re going to do that forever.”
Michael finally looked back at her, and there was something quietly certain in his expression now.
“I hope so” he said.
And in the dim hospital light, with their son breathing softly between them, it didn’t feel like a beginning anymore.
It felt like forever.
~~~~~~~~~
Authors note: congrats to the worlds best parents.
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to add onto the concept of mature! michael not knowing how to use a phone… how about a freaking iphone
like this man would just give up entirely tbh
of course mature! michael would never text, always call— and when you don’t answer he’s always leaving you some voicemail! and his lips would be pressed against that iphone cause he doesn’t know where to talk into: “Hi love, please get back to me as soon as you can. I dialed you six times now. I love you, bye.” followed by mumbling and small taps on the screen before he hangs up.
and when you text him, mature! michael would always send videos of his responding talking into the camera, glasses propped onto his nose and chin titled up like he’s still figuring the phone out.
and when does learn to type?? this man is slow as hell and uses one finger !!😭😭
“just give me the phone,” you’d tell him after watching him type one sentence with his pointer finger for the past 5 minutes.
Synopsis: On the Daily Planet rooftop, you interview Superman with a reporter’s poise—and Clark’s mask finally cracks. Between truth and identity, apology and boundary, the night forces both of you to face what love broke and what dignity must protect.
Warnings: ngst, heartbreak, emotional confrontation, identity reveal tension, past emotional neglect, crying, aerial scene (fear of heights), boundary setting, implied love triangle
WC: 5,200 words approx.
════ ∘◦❁◦∘ ════
Night had fallen over Metropolis. The wind blew fiercely across the rooftop of the Daily Planet, making your hair whip around as you adjusted your professional attire. Your bag was open, Jimmy’s guide for the interview sat among loose papers, and the camera was ready.
Adam and James had walked you up to the first floor, but they stayed behind. You wanted to go in alone, without distractions. You took a deep breath, reviewing the questions, trying not to think about the personal side of it. This was work. Only work.
Then you heard it. That deep, steady voice that both unsettled you and made your nerves tremble.
“Good evening.”
You jumped, turning sharply. Superman was there, standing, his cape swaying in rhythm with the wind.
“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, with a nervous smile. “Perhaps I should have found a more… appropriate place.”
He shook his head gently, stepping closer.
“I like simplicity.”
Your smile softened almost without you realizing. You lowered your gaze for a second, trying to gather yourself, and when you looked back up you found him seated in front of you, as if he had never been far, as if the months hadn’t passed.
“Are you happy in London?” he asked suddenly.
The question hit you. You blinked, surprised.
“How do you know?”
He cleared his throat, a bit uneasy.
“Clark is terrible at talking about his life. And I… well, I’m curious.”
Your expression hardened immediately.
“What happens with Kent no longer concerns me.”
His eyes locked on you. There was something in that gaze that unsettled you, as though he carried your words heavier than he should.
“You ended very badly,” he said in a low voice. “And yet, he insisted you were the only person he would trust to interview me.”
You pressed your lips together, holding back the surge of emotions. At last, you answered:
“That’s unfortunate. If you’re such good friends, then you must know he regrets breaking my heart. I suppose that’s his price. But it doesn’t matter. I’m here to interview you, not for you to interview me.”
You turned on the recorder and inhaled deeply, regaining your professional tone.
“Alright,” you said calmly, avoiding his gaze for too long. “Let’s begin. What is the greatest responsibility you feel as the protector of Metropolis?”
Superman lowered his gaze for a moment, searching for words that wouldn’t betray him.
“The greatest responsibility… is not failing the people who trust me.”
Your eyes narrowed. You took notes, voice neutral.
“And do you believe you’ve succeeded? Not failing?”
He swallowed. That simple question cut deep.
“I have failed,” he admitted in a whisper. “More than I would like.”
You didn’t look up. Holding firm was your shield.
“Then… how do you rise after failing?”
Clark took a deep breath. His voice sounded fractured, though he tried to cloak it with solemnity.
“By remembering that there are still people who deserve the best of me… even if, sometimes, I lose the one who deserves it most.”
You glanced up briefly, surprised by the intensity, but quickly recovered.
“Let’s return to the general,” you said firmly. “What advice would you give to those who blindly trust heroes?”
He looked at you, heart burning.
“That heroes make mistakes too. That… they can be selfish, cowardly, and hurt even those they most want to protect.”
Your lips pressed into a hard line.
“And how do you expect anyone to trust such a hero again?”
The question struck him down. Clark lowered his head, the weight of your words crushing him.
“I don’t know,” he murmured. “Maybe they don’t deserve to trust me again… maybe all that’s left is to wait for time to heal what I broke.”
The wind blew hard, tugging at his red cape. You didn’t blink, you didn’t flinch.
“Superman,” you said with controlled voice, “you speak as if you’re talking about yourself, not an ideal.”
He raised his eyes to you, and although you only saw the hero, behind that gaze Clark felt each of your words strip him bare.
“Because ideals… rest on people. And people sometimes destroy what they love most.”
You kept silent, only the click of your pen filling the air. Then, with the coldest tone you could summon, you replied:
“Then I suppose your interview will be marked by that. By a hero who knows he is also human.”
Clark nodded with difficulty. He couldn’t contradict you. He couldn’t explain. He could only accept the weight of what he had done and the irreparable distance between you.
On that rooftop, while you held the composure of a professional, he realized with pain everything he had lost and the damage he had caused.
The recorder kept running, the wind tossed your hair, and you kept your journalist’s composure. You lifted your gaze with a brief, polite smile, as if there were nothing more than a job to complete.
“Superman,” you began again, “what does it mean for you to be a symbol in a city that has seen so many crises?”
He inhaled deeply.
“It means… lifting people up even when I myself am broken. To let them believe I will always be there, even when I may not deserve it.”
You nodded slowly, taking notes.
“And do you ever feel your personal life is erased? That behind the symbol there’s a man losing what he values most?”
Clark looked at you intently, heart constricted.
“Yes. Too many times.”
You smiled a little, that cordial smile you used in interviews to put the subject at ease.
“Then… how do you manage to balance that sacrifice?”
“With the hope that, someday, those I love most will forgive me for not being enough.”
Your lips trembled slightly, but you kept your composure.
“That sounds… painful.”
“It is.”
Your eyes dropped back to your notes, and with a calm voice you continued:
“What would you say to the young journalists who have followed you since your first appearances? What advice would you give to those trying to tell your story?”
“To write with truth,” he replied, “even if that truth hurts. To not sugarcoat what they see… or what they feel.”
You nodded, offering another faint smile.
“Then I’ll have to be faithful to your words in my article.”
He felt the air leave his lungs. That warm, professional smile pierced him like a knife. Because he knew—with absolute certainty—that if you knew Superman and Clark were the same, you wouldn’t give it. That smile wouldn’t belong to him. Because he didn’t deserve it.
And still, he held your gaze, clinging to that moment with a mix of longing and guilt.
“Thank you for answering so honestly,” you said clearly, tucking your pen away.
“Thank you for asking so kindly,” he murmured softly.
You placed the pen into your bag with exaggerated calm, as if the tremor in your hands didn’t exist, and turned off the recorder. The click echoed too loudly in the rooftop silence. You rose slowly, straightening your jacket and taking a deep breath.
“That will be enough,” you said firmly, though inside you burned. “Thank you for your time, Superman. The Gazette will be satisfied.”
He nodded, but didn’t take a single step. His cape whipped in the night wind, the city shone behind him like a sea of lights, and his eyes stayed fixed on you with an intensity that unsettled you.
“May I… ask you something outside the interview?” he murmured at last. His voice was lower, almost insecure, as if the words cost him effort.
You raised your chin, clinging to the professionalism you had promised to keep.
“That depends on what it is.”
He hesitated. He swallowed hard, his throat tight, and at last let the words slip out.
“Clark… Clark asked me to tell you something.”
The name struck your chest like a hammer. Your eyes hardened, your posture stiffened.
“This has nothing to do with Kent,” you answered coldly. Each syllable was a blade. “You shouldn’t involve yourself in those matters.”
The strength in your voice made him lower his head for a moment. The muscles in his jaw tightened, as though he carried the weight of your rejection.
“You’re right. I shouldn’t.”
Silence fell between you, heavy, broken only by the moan of the wind. It was as if the city had vanished, as if only that unbridgeable distance remained.
And then he spoke again, his voice fractured, as though the words escaped against his will:
“It’s just… he’s been unwell since you left. Very unwell.”
Your jaw tightened, rage rising in your throat. Your breathing quickened, not from emotion, but from suppressed pain.
“That changes nothing,” you said, your gaze hard. “You can’t hurt someone and then expect remorse to erase what happened. It doesn’t work like that.”
He pressed his lips together. He took a step toward you, clumsy in a way that didn’t fit the perfect figure of the hero.
“He didn’t want to… he never meant to hurt you.”
You felt a knot in your throat, but you crushed it with your anger.
“And what does it matter what he meant? He did it. He broke me, do you understand? And if he truly were your friend, you’d know he has no right to send you to tell me anything. Because the last thing I need is pity.”
Your words landed like a blow. He blinked rapidly, as though wanting to respond, but the phrases stuck in his throat.
“He…” his voice trembled. “He hasn’t forgiven himself for a single second of what happened.”
Your eyes gleamed with contained fury.
“Well, too bad. Because neither have I.”
The wind roared across the rooftop, tossing your hair and his cape as if you were both caught in the same storm. Your words had struck him, but he didn’t yield. His lips quivered with the urgency to speak.
“You don’t understand,” he began, voice raw. “He… I… Clark doesn’t know how to make anything right. He spends entire nights thinking of you, of how he should have chosen the right words and didn’t. Of how he should have looked you in the eyes instead of turning away. Of how he should have stopped you before you boarded that plane…”
You shook your head, incredulous, trying to halt the surge of feelings his words stirred.
“Enough, Superman. I’m not a message to be carried back and forth. I’m not his haunted memory.”
He clenched his fists at his sides, his knuckles taut beneath the gloves.
“You’re not a memory,” he said firmly, then lowered his voice. “You’re the only person who ever made Clark feel… alive.”
Your lips trembled, but you didn’t yield.
“He had his chance and wasted it.”
“Because he was a coward,” he insisted, stepping closer. “Because he thought he had time. Because he believed you could wait. And instead of protecting you, he let you believe you were… a second choice.”
The air in your chest grew heavy. Your heart pounded violently.
“And wasn’t I?”
He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, they were filled with pain.
“No. You never were.”
The silence stretched between you, broken only by your uneven breathing. Then, in a thread of voice, he added:
“Clark never wanted to overshadow you. Not even to lie that night… when you kissed him beneath the mistletoe.”
Your eyes widened. The world seemed to stop.
“What…?” You could barely form the word.
He realized too late what he had said. The tension in his face betrayed him, the tremor in his voice exposed him.
“Clark… told me,” he tried to recover, but it sounded false even to his own ears.
Tears shimmered in your eyes, and your voice broke in a whisper.
“That… no one knew. No one else was there.”
Superman couldn’t answer. He only held your gaze, and in his glassy eyes you saw everything he had kept silent.
Your heart pounded furiously. Your lips trembled as the inevitable question escaped.
“Clark?”
The hero, the man before you, swallowed and lowered his eyes, unable to sustain the lie any longer.
“It was the only way to speak to you,” he finally confessed, his voice broken.
Your lips curved into a bitter smile.
“Unbelievable… now that’s another lie.”
“No!” he retorted instantly, stepping toward you, his eyes desperate. “It’s not a lie. I only wanted—”
“Enough!” you cut him off, your voice cracking across the rooftop like a whip. “I’m fine now. I don’t want to see you. I don’t need this.”
Clark reached out a hand toward you, as though he could stop you with a single gesture. His voice faltered.
“Please… listen to me. All this time… I cried in front of my parents. I told them I was a bad man, that I had broken your heart. I felt empty, as if nothing made sense anymore.”
“So what?” your voice shook, caught between fury and pain. “Now you want me to applaud you because you cried? That doesn’t give me anything back! That doesn’t erase how you made me feel!”
He closed his eyes for a moment, swallowing, as though every word hurt.
“I’m not asking for applause… I’m asking you to listen. To know that I regret it. That I swear I’ve understood… that I would never again dare to place someone I love in second place.”
At last your tears fell, hot against your skin, but your gaze hardened into stone.
“Well, you’ve already lost me.” Your voice was a blade.
Clark stepped closer, his hand still outstretched, his breath ragged.
“Don’t say that. Don’t… don’t tell me it’s too late.”
“It is!” you cried, spinning sharply. The icy air burned your throat, but your words were fire. “You lost me the day you looked at her as if I had never existed. You lost me when you made me feel like a mistake, like some passing whim. That day was the end, Clark!”
He paled, every word you spoke cutting into him like a knife. His voice came out barely a whisper.
“I… I didn’t want to.”
“But you did.” You turned, tears blurring your vision. “And there’s nothing left to say.”
You turned again, ready to leave. The pain was too much, and if you stayed a second longer, you knew your heart would break again.
“No,” he murmured, and in one sudden motion, he pulled you into his arms.
“What are you doing?!” you screamed, struggling.
Before you could react, he soared into the sky, so high that the icy wind lashed your face and the lights of Metropolis looked like distant stars.
“Clark, put me down!” you shouted, terror and fury entwined in your voice. “What, are you going to drop me if I don’t say what you want to hear?”
He held you tighter, his gaze desperate.
“I don’t want to hurt you. I want you to hear me. Because I know that if I don’t do this… you’ll run again, like you have since you left. And I… I don’t want to lose the last chance to tell you what I feel.”
Your voice broke, trembling from both cold and rage.
“You can’t force me.”
“Just once,” he pleaded, eyes glassy. “Just once, please. Let me say it all… and if after that you still want to go, I’ll accept it.”
The wind roared in your ears, the icy air slicing your skin, and yet the true weight lay in the words you knew were about to leave his mouth. Clark held you firmly, as though letting go would break something more than just the air between you.
“Fine,” you said at last, closing your eyes. “Speak.”
He swallowed hard. His voice trembled like it rarely ever had before.
“I… I destroyed you. I know that. And I have no right to ask you for anything. I looked at you, and yet, deep down, I was still looking at Lois. Not because you were less… but because I was a coward. I was trapped in a habit, in a routine. And when you came along, I didn’t know what to do with what you awakened in me.”
Your eyes filled with tears, but you forced yourself to keep your gaze fixed on him.
Clark continued, faster now, as if the fear of silence pushed him to spill everything at once.
“When you left, I thought I could live with it. That it was better for you. But I was wrong. I came home and collapsed into my mother’s arms. I cried like a child. I told her I was a bad man, that I had destroyed something I should never have lost. I spent sleepless nights… hearing the echo of your voice in my empty apartment. Staring at your empty desk at the Planet. It was as if everything screamed the same thing at me: that I had let you slip away.”
Tears welled in his eyes, shimmering under the city lights.
“I felt empty. As Superman, I lifted buildings, saved lives, smiled at the cameras… but inside I was broken. And every time I thought of you, of what you wrote in that letter, I understood that you were right: I was selfish, I took your love for granted, as if you’d always be there. And I didn’t deserve it.”
Your throat tightened, tears now streaming down your cheeks.
“I realized it too late,” he went on, his voice breaking. “That it wasn’t Lois. It was never Lois. It was you I searched for every time I walked into the newsroom. You I hoped to see smiling in the morning. You I wanted to hold hands with, even if I was too afraid to admit it.”
He lowered his head, barely sobbing.
“You took everything from me when you left… and you were right. Because I had already ruined it.”
Your voice came out as a whisper, fragile and broken:
“Clark…”
He held you tighter.
“I don’t want you to forgive me now. I just… needed you to know. That what I felt wasn’t a lie. That I wasn’t pretending when I kissed you, when I looked at you. That even if I was a coward, I loved you. And I still do.”
The silence stretched between you, broken only by your restrained sobs. With effort, you managed to speak:
“Let me down, Clark.”
He opened his eyes, heavy with pain.
“Please…” he whispered, like a desperate plea.
“I already heard you.” You insisted, your voice steady despite its tremor. “There’s nothing left to say.”
Clark closed his eyes, and with a slow movement, he began to descend. The wind that surrounded you both faded until your feet touched the rooftop.
He didn’t let go right away, as if he wanted to cling to the last fragment of what you had once been. But you took a step back, forcing him to release you.
You looked at him, your tears shining under the lights of Metropolis.
“I don’t hate you, Clark.”
He lifted his gaze with reddened eyes, as though those words might save him from the fall.
But your broken voice pierced through him again when you added, moving away as you gathered your things:
“But I can’t live with someone who will always make me feel I’m not enough. Who condemns me to believe I’m competing with Lois Lane.”
You wiped your trembling cheeks.
“Are you in love with him?” Clark asked, his voice strangled with tears.
You looked at him wearily, and he lowered his head.
“I just… need to know.”
“I think I… found someone capable of giving me what you never knew how to give.”
Your voice cracked on the final sentence, but you didn’t look away. Clark, however, could barely hold your gaze: tears streamed down his face in devastating silence.
And so, beneath the vast skyline of Metropolis, two broken souls stood apart—one clinging to memories that no longer existed, the other gathering the strength to walk away. The city lights shimmered like distant stars, quietly bearing witness to the end of something once infinite.
You turned around. Your footsteps echoed on the concrete of the rooftop as you walked away.
Clark stayed behind, his cape hanging at his sides, his chest hollow. He watched you until you disappeared from sight, and he knew—with painful certainty—that yes, he had lost you forever.
The next day dawned gray over Metropolis. You woke up early, but not to look for him. Quite the opposite: you asked at the reception desk to return the badge they had given you to enter the Daily Planet. You didn’t want to go back there. You didn’t want to risk seeing him again.
Your plan was simple: write the article, fulfill your duty, and leave.
While you were closing the small suitcase you had packed to move around the city, Adam knocked gently on your door.
“It’s open,” you replied.
He stepped inside quietly and watched you pretend to fold clothes. But he noticed. He had known it ever since you left the Planet in silence, without saying a word about the interview with Superman. He guessed Clark had been there, waiting for you.
“You still love him, don’t you?”
You looked at him in surprise, your eyes burning. He stopped at the sight of your swollen eyelids.
“Sorry…” you whispered, wiping away your tears. “I’m such a fool, really.” You laughed through broken sobs.
“No.” Adam shook his head at once, moving closer to wipe your tears with the tip of his fingers. “You’re not a fool. You’re in love. But tell me… does he love you? Because I won’t let you stay with someone who will only break you again.”
You lowered your gaze, your voice trembling.
“I’m not staying, Adam. I’ve already decided. It’s just that… I don’t know what to do now.”
He nodded slowly, as if he had already expected that answer. A sad smile curved his lips.
“He’s a foolish farm boy.”
You nodded with tears in your eyes.
“Yes… he is.”
Adam pulled you into a tight embrace. He said nothing more. He kept silent because he knew this moment would come, because he had felt it from the very beginning.
Two more days passed. The hotel clock marked the hours with unbearable cruelty. The curtains always drawn, the air tainted with reheated coffee, and your papers scattered across the bed and table as if they were visible scars of what you were trying to forget. You didn’t step outside for even a minute. You locked yourself in that room as if the outside world didn’t exist.
Your life was reduced to the blue glow of the laptop, to cups of cold coffee piling up on the nightstand, and to the crumpled notes you had written and rewritten over and over again. The article had to sound objective, professional, clean. No feelings, no open wounds. “Only work, nothing else,” you repeated to yourself with the same coldness you used to review your sentences.
But every time you typed “Superman protects the city,” your hands trembled. And every time you tried to describe the trust he inspired in people, you remembered how broken his voice had sounded when he spoke to you on the rooftop.
On the night of the second day, as you crossed out yet another sentence that felt too personal, the dry sound of a notification jolted you. You looked at the email screen. Your breath stopped when you read the sender: Clark Kent.
For a moment you thought about not opening it. About deleting it without looking. But your hand moved on its own.
The message was short, far too short:
I know you don’t want to see me.
You forgot the photos for your article.
Good day.
You froze, your fingers hovering above the keyboard. You opened the attachments with a knot in your throat.
And there they were: flawless photographs of Superman on the rooftop of the Daily Planet, the city sprawling behind him like an ocean of lights. Every frame was impeccable. Every angle seemed chosen to give you exactly what you needed for your article.
The tears came before you could stop them. They overflowed, spilling onto your hands, onto the keyboard. You pressed one to your lips, trying to stifle the sob.
“No…” you whispered, your voice breaking. “No, don’t cry.”
But it was useless. You curled up in the chair, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, with the images still open on the screen. You knew those photos weren’t just material for your work. They were a message. A silent gift. A farewell.
“Calm down,” you repeated to yourself, your hands shaking. “Calm down. It’s just work.”
But each photograph was a reminder of everything you had lived through, of what he had told you in the sky, of what he had confessed too late. And then you understood the true cruelty of it all: he had wanted to give you the only thing he couldn’t give you as Clark—the proof that he still cared for you, even if only in the form of images.
At last, the day of departure arrived. Morning broke with a clear sky over Metropolis, as if the city itself were mocking your farewell. You packed your suitcases slowly, folding each garment with a meticulousness that wasn’t real but merely an attempt to distract yourself. You stored your papers, the camera, the laptop with the drafts of your article. Every item you locked inside the suitcase reminded you that there was no excuse left to stay.
In the hotel lobby, Jimmy was already waiting. He wore a wrinkled jacket and had his inseparable camera hanging from his neck. When he saw you appear with the luggage, he opened his arms without saying a word.
He hugged you tightly, with that warmth only someone truly loyal could give. It was a long embrace, full of silences—almost like that of a brother who doesn’t want to let you go.
“I love you,” he finally said, with a gentle smile that hid a knot in his throat.
Your eyes filled with tears at once. “And please… don’t let the British attitude rub off on you.”
A small laugh escaped through your tears as you nodded.
“I’ll try.”
Jimmy took a step back, looking at you with an unusual seriousness. He lowered his voice, as if afraid someone else might overhear.
“He’s not here.”
Your heart skipped a beat. That “he’s not here” was both the confirmation of what you feared and what you secretly longed for. You feigned calm, forcing an indifferent expression.
“I’m not looking for him.”
He raised an eyebrow, tilting his head with a skeptical smile.
“Sure you aren’t.”
Your lips trembled, but you didn’t answer. Your throat tightened with the weight of tears you refused to shed in that moment. You only picked up your suitcases and walked toward the hotel door. Every step echoed against the floor like a haunting refrain: I’m not looking for him, I’m not looking for him, I’m not looking for him.
But the truth burned inside you. You searched for him even in your denial; you searched for him in the windows of the buildings as the taxi carried you to the airport; you searched for him in every shadow crossing the streets, both dreading and yearning that it might be him.
Jimmy stayed in the lobby, watching you walk away. You didn’t look back. Not because you didn’t want to see him… but because you were afraid of seeing someone else, hidden among the crowd, silently saying goodbye.
The echo of those last words—“He’s not here” / “I’m not looking for him” / “Sure you aren’t”—kept pounding in your chest as Metropolis faded behind you, a city that had been your home, your wound, and your lost love.
════ ∘◦❁◦∘ ════
This work is mine. Copying or translating this fic is strictly prohibited. Any issue must be notified directly to me. Thank you.
Note: The last part of this story will be published soon. However, to ease a little of the sadness, I’ll be posting a small standalone fic later today so we can all take a peaceful break after so much tension.
Note: This fanfic just popped into my head, and I don't know—it feels like something new, haha—angst and weird.
Clark Kent x female reader
Sinopsis: You decide to become a mother on your own, and Clark offers to be your donor. What begins as an unexpected arrangement slowly becomes something neither of you is brave enough to name.
Your hands played with the Rubik’s Cube you had picked up from Clark’s coffee table. You twisted it absentmindedly, more to keep your fingers busy than out of any real interest in solving it. The colored pieces shifted over and over while your gaze wandered around Clark’s apartment living room.
It was Saturday, and like every week, Lois and Jimmy had gathered at Clark’s apartment. It was the kind of work ritual they had created without meaning to, something that had started by chance and slowly became a tradition. Every Saturday, one of you hosted dinner—pizza, burgers, wine, whatever was available to unwind after a long week.
Tonight, it was Clark’s turn, and the atmosphere felt warm, as always. Jimmy’s laughter, Lois’s clever remarks, and Clark’s calm presence as the host. Everything was the same as every other gathering, but something inside you felt different.
You quietly looked at your friends. You watched them eat and laugh, and for a moment it struck you that you had already spent three years working at the Daily Planet as an article editor.
It was demanding work, of course. Correcting texts, dealing with impossible deadlines, and putting up with the bad moods of certain reporters was no easy task. But you enjoyed it. You loved the newspaper, the scent of ink, the clatter of typewriters, the last-minute rushes.
You had lived with Lois for a few months when you first moved to Metropolis. She had opened the doors of her apartment to you despite barely knowing you, simply because you were new and needed a place to stay.
That was how you met Jimmy, who worked at the paper as a photographer, and eventually Clark, who arrived later as a reporter.
Jimmy had been the one who approached you without hesitation. You barely remembered how it happened—whether it was a silly joke or a comment about something you had seen on the street—but somehow you ended up talking about his life and yours.
With Clark, things had been different.
He was the last one to speak to you.
At first, he only watched whenever you talked with Jimmy or Lois. He was kind, of course. A “good morning,” “good night,” or “good job” was all you exchanged in those early days. Nothing more.
Until Lois invited you to the famous “work-free Saturday” gathering at Jimmy’s apartment.
Then it was at Clark’s.
Then at the apartment you shared with Lois.
And once you got your own place, they started coming over too.
Without realizing it, the four of you had become a group.
After spending so much time together, Clark had accidentally revealed his biggest secret.
It happened one day that still sent chills down your spine whenever you remembered it.
You had been accompanying him during an interview assignment. A powerful earthquake struck without warning, the kind that made walls groan and windows shatter.
You and Clark had been waiting for Lois on the top floor of a bank while preparing to interview some of the staff. You had only gone along for the experience because you enjoyed watching reporters work up close.
But you leaned a little too far over the edge.
When the earthquake hit, you nearly fell from the building.
If Clark hadn’t grabbed your hand, you would have plunged straight into the void.
Before either of you could say anything, the building shook again, and both of you fell.
You genuinely thought you were about to die alongside Clark.
You squeezed your eyes shut, clenched your teeth, and waited for the impact.
But it never came.
When you opened your eyes, both of you were completely unharmed.
Far away from the building.
As if someone had carried you through the air and gently set you down.
You stared at him in confusion.
Clark looked back with an expression that clearly screamed, Oh no.
Then he said, “I’ll explain.”
And a second later, he disappeared.
That was how you discovered his secret.
There had been no explanation that day. Only the image of him flying away while you stood in the middle of the street with your mouth hanging open.
After that, everything changed between you.
You asked him endless questions, but he never seemed bothered by them.
Quite the opposite.
It almost seemed as though he enjoyed having someone who knew the truth and allowed him to talk without pretending.
“So you can’t get drunk? Ever? Like, never ever?” you asked one day while the two of you walked to work.
He shook his head with a smile, hands tucked into his pockets.
What you didn’t know was that every time you asked questions like that, Clark’s heart beat a little faster.
Because he loved when you talked to him that way.
So close.
So easily.
Later, while everyone worked at their desks, you would quietly slide your chair closer to his.
You leaned in slightly and lowered your voice.
“Can you hear the nonsense rattling around inside Steve’s empty head?” you whispered.
A laugh almost escaped him, but he bit his lip to stop himself.
“No, not that,” he whispered back.
You laughed softly, careful not to let anyone notice.
Clark treasured those laughs like precious gifts.
“And can you fly from here to Japan in a second?” you asked another time while buying coffee from the office machine.
He laughed, that gentle laugh of his.
“No. Half a second.”
Your eyes widened immediately.
Clark stared at you for a second longer than he should have.
That second where he thought, I wish I could spend the rest of my life looking at you like this.
But he never said it.
He couldn’t.
Time passed that way, through curious questions and answers that always left you thinking.
The closeness became natural within your little group.
That was why you loved spending time with them.
Because around them, you could simply be yourself.
No masks.
No pretending everything was fine when sometimes it wasn’t.
But what you never saw, what you never noticed, was the way Clark looked at you when you weren’t paying attention.
When you laughed at one of Jimmy’s jokes, he watched you and let out a quiet sigh.
When you said goodbye and walked down the newspaper hallway, he kept staring at the door you had disappeared through for several seconds after you were already gone.
Clark had been in love with you for a long time.
But he couldn’t do anything about it.
Not because he didn’t want to.
Because he couldn’t.
He knew that if he got too close, if he dared to love you the way he wanted to, the villains he faced every day could come after you.
Lex Luthor, and every other criminal who wanted to hurt Superman, knew the best way to do it was through the people he loved.
Clark couldn’t bear the thought of you being kidnapped one day.
Of you being hurt.
Of something happening to you simply because he cared about you.
So he stayed silent.
That was why he only smiled whenever you spoke to him.
Why he only helped when you needed him.
Why he never took that step forward.
Because he would rather watch you be happy from a distance than see you crying because of him.
And so, night after night, he watched you while biting back the words he longed to say.
The evening continued.
The pizzas gradually disappeared.
The laughter slowly faded too.
Then Jimmy glanced at his watch and suddenly jumped to his feet.
“I’m heading out. I’ve got a date,” Jimmy said, springing up from the couch and stretching his arms overhead.
Lois raised an eyebrow.
“You’re leaving?” she asked, sounding surprised that he was going so early.
“Yep,” Jimmy replied as he slipped on his jacket. “You coming, Lane?”
“Yeah. I have a medical appointment tomorrow. They’ll probably tell me to stop drinking coffee,” Lois commented before looking at you expectantly.
“Alright. I’ll help Clark clean up,” you said without thinking much about it, simply because it seemed like the right thing to do.
Jimmy and Lois smiled at the exact same moment, as if they knew something you didn’t.
Clark, meanwhile, grew slightly nervous, though he hid it well.
His heart pounded at the thought of being alone with you.
Jimmy walked toward the door, and just before leaving, he said,
“We promise you can leave everything exactly like this when you come over to my apartment.”
Lois let out a short laugh and shook her head.
The two of them said their goodbyes with a quick hug.
Jimmy gave Clark a friendly pat on the back.
Lois blew an air kiss to both of you.
The door closed with a soft click, and suddenly the apartment felt bigger, emptier. The noise of the city drifted in through the window, but inside, only silence remained—and the two of you.
You grabbed a slice of pepperoni pizza from the box, the one that had already gone a little cold, and took a bite without much enthusiasm.
You looked down at the Rubik’s Cube in your hand.
The pieces were still scrambled, just like your thoughts.
Clark glanced at you from the corner of his eye while wiping down the table with a dishcloth, but you didn’t notice. He watched the way your hair fell across your face, the way your fingers turned the cube over and over again.
Clark sat down beside you on the couch.
He began fidgeting with his hands, lacing his fingers together and pulling them apart again. Then he adjusted his glasses with one finger, that habit he always had.
“You don’t need to wear those around me, Clark,” you said, pointing at his glasses.
You had noticed that he still wore them even though you already knew who he was, and it always made you smile a little.
I wear them because when I have them on, I feel more like Clark and less like Superman. And I want to be Clark with you. I want you to see me, not him.
But all he said was, “Yeah, you’re right,” before taking them off.
He looked at you for a moment.
His hands were trembling on the inside, though outwardly he seemed calm. He always tried to appear calm around you, even when he was falling apart inside.
“You were quiet tonight. You didn’t joke around,” he said.
He had noticed it from the moment you arrived.
A smile when you walked in, yes.
But after that, distant stares. No laughter. No jokes. No stories.
Nothing.
Just you listening to everyone else, nodding when appropriate, but never really joining in the way you usually did.
And it worried him.
Because you worried him all the time.
Every time you frowned, he found himself wondering what he could do to fix it.
But once again, he kept those thoughts to himself.
You lowered your head and played with the hem of your shirt.
“I’m thirty,” you admitted, as if that explained everything.
And in a way, it did.
Because turning thirty had made you think about a thousand things that had never mattered before.
He smiled.
That soft smile of his, the one that always managed to undo you.
What you didn’t know was that smile hurt a little on the inside, because he had spent the last two years wanting to tell you something, and every time he saw you, a knot formed in his throat.
“I know. You turned thirty a month ago,” he said.
You looked at him.
Of course he knew.
He had been the one who bought the balloons and decorations Lois had suggested for your surprise party.
He had gone to three different stores searching for balloons in your favorite color.
You remembered that day.
Coming home to find your apartment filled with colors and streamers.
You had suspected Lois.
Now you knew Clark had helped too.
What you didn’t know was that he had blown up every single balloon himself, one by one, because he wanted everything to be perfect for you.
You paused.
Bit your lip.
Then finally gathered your courage.
“I think... I’ve been thinking about some things,” you said.
“Things?” Clark asked, staring directly at you, barely blinking.
Inside, he was dying from curiosity and fear at the same time.
Because every word that came out of your mouth mattered to him.
“Yeah. I feel lonely, Clark... not in a ‘I need a man’ kind of way or anything. Just...” You hesitated. “Well... I... I’ve decided I want to get pregnant.”
Heat rushed into your cheeks.
Saying it out loud had been difficult.
But now it was out there.
Clark stared at you in surprise.
His lips parted slightly, and a small frown appeared on his face, as though he wasn’t entirely sure he had heard you correctly.
“I’m not pregnant,” you quickly clarified, raising a hand before he could misunderstand.
He nodded, visibly relieved.
But inside, he was anything but relieved.
His mind was racing.
Calculating.
Imagining.
“Oh,” he said quietly, waiting for you to continue.
“I’m going to look for a sperm donor. I’ve researched the clinic and...” You swallowed. “I think I want to do it. I want to be a mom.”
You blushed.
It was hard to look him in the eye, but you did anyway.
Clark didn’t laugh.
He didn’t make a face.
He simply listened, focused on you the same way he listened to an important source for a story.
Except there was something else in his gaze.
Something you couldn’t quite read.
“Oh,” Clark repeated.
Then silence settled between you.
The distant traffic below.
The hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
Seconds passed that felt like minutes.
His heart started pounding.
Pregnant?
She wants a child?
And immediately, something shifted inside him.
A longing he hadn’t known he possessed.
Because Clark had always believed he could never have a normal family.
That he would never get married.
Never have children.
Never live the quiet life everyone else seemed to have.
But if you had his child...
It would be like leaving a piece of himself with you forever.
And maybe, just maybe, that would be his way of loving you without putting you in danger.
A child wouldn’t draw attention the way a girlfriend would.
A child could remain a secret between the two of you.
A child would be like saying I love you without ever having to say the words.
If I offer and she accepts, I’m going to have a child.
A child with her.
I’ll get to watch them grow up.
I’ll get to be there without having to explain why.
And every time I look at that child, I’ll see her face and mine.
Finally, he spoke.
“Have you found a donor yet?”
“No. It’ll probably be one of those anonymous donors who go to the clinic and leave their sample,” you said casually, as though you were talking about borrowing a book.
But your voice trembled ever so slightly.
Clark took a deep breath.
It was now or never.
His hands shook a little, so he hid them between his knees before you could notice.
“I could donate,” he said simply, as though he were offering to help you move furniture.
The two of you fell silent.
You laughed.
A nervous laugh.
The kind that escaped when you didn’t know what else to do.
“Oh my God, Clark. We don’t even know how Kryptonian sperm works. What if it starts shooting lasers inside my uterus?” you joked, trying to ease the tension.
But Clark didn’t laugh.
His face remained serious.
His lips pressed together.
His eyes locked on yours.
This wasn’t a joke to him.
It was the biggest opportunity he’d had in years to be close to you without putting up another wall.
You looked at him more seriously now.
The joke died on its own.
“Are you serious?” you asked, your voice softer than you intended.
You swallowed hard.
Having a baby was something you had dreamed about for a long time.
But a child carrying Clark’s genes...
Maybe it wasn’t just because he was your coworker.
Maybe it was because he was Superman.
Because he was Kryptonian.
And...
God.
You loved him too.
You had been in love with Clark for a long time.
But you stopped yourself after a conversation you’d had one night.
He had said it so clearly:
“Loving someone hurts when that person ends up being destroyed. That’s why I stay away from those things.”
You had heard those words and assumed he didn’t want anything serious with anyone.
What you never knew was that those words had never been meant for you.
They were meant for himself.
He repeated them every night in front of the mirror so he wouldn’t call you.
So he wouldn’t get closer.
So he wouldn’t give in.
Loving someone hurts, he reminded himself.
And I don’t want her to suffer because of me.
And now, a year later, he was sitting here offering to donate his sperm so the two of you could have a child together.
Your heart was beating too fast.
Far too fast.
“I don’t know if...” You shifted uncomfortably on the couch, struggling to find the right words.
“I don’t know if we’re compatible,” you finally said without looking at him, your eyes fixed on the Rubik’s Cube.
“The Fortress can help. They can run tests. Their technology is advanced,” Clark replied with the confidence he always seemed to have whenever he talked about his world.
But the truth was that he wasn’t confident at all.
He was terrified.
Terrified you would say no.
Terrified you would say yes.
Terrified of everything.
But even more terrified of never knowing.
“If you’re okay with it, of course,” Clark added.
Then he waited.
You looked at him.
The seconds stretched on.
“It’s a baby, Clark,” you said, as though he didn’t understand the magnitude of what he was suggesting.
“A... no... this...” You waved your hands helplessly, unable to find the right gesture.
“Don’t you think it would be awkward?”
Clark took a deep breath.
He shifted a little closer without you noticing.
He wanted to be near you, even if it was only by a few inches.
“I’m thirty-three years old. I don’t think I’m ever going to marry anyone. And I can’t imagine a better person than you to have a baby with,” he said.
His voice sounded calm, but there was something in his eyes that suggested he wasn’t being entirely honest.
Or maybe he was.
You weren’t sure anymore.
What he didn’t say—what he kept to himself—was:
I’m not going to get married because the only person I want to marry is you, and I can’t ask you because I’d be putting you in danger. But a child... a child is something nobody can take away from you. Something that will always connect you to me. And every time you look at them, I’ll be there, even if you can’t see me.
“No... having a baby doesn’t make us a couple,” you said carefully, emphasizing every word so there would be no misunderstanding.
He nodded slowly.
He knew that.
He knew a child wouldn’t change things.
But to him, it meant everything.
It meant a piece of him would live with you.
It meant he would get to watch you become a mother, watch you be happy, watch you laugh while holding a little piece of him in your arms.
It meant he could finally love you without saying it out loud, without exposing you, without having to wear a cape and fly in front of enemies.
A child would become his silent I love you.
His way of saying I care about you without words.
Clark looked at you.
Loving someone in silence was torture.
He knew that better than anyone.
Every night he went to bed thinking about you.
Every morning he woke up wanting to call you.
Every time he saw you laughing with someone else, it felt like a punch to the chest.
But he always stayed quiet.
Always kept everything locked away.
Having a child while pretending he felt nothing would be a sacrifice he was willing to make, because at least it would give him a bond with you that no one could break.
Something that would tie you together forever, even if you never understood how deeply he loved you.
He tilted his head slightly and smiled.
That smile that always made you forget why you were afraid.
But behind it was a man who had loved you for years and had finally found one way—one single way—to love you without risking your safety.
“You want a baby. I can give you one,” he said.
And something shone in his eyes.
You couldn’t tell if it was friendship.
Or tenderness.
Or the silent love he carried like a secret no one else knew.
Something that seemed to say I love you without actually saying the words.
Something you failed to see that night.
Clark did it.
He donated his sperm.
For you, it was awkward.
For him, it wasn’t.
You felt embarrassed being there, in such a strange place, surrounded by robots that looked like they belonged in a science-fiction movie.
But Clark was calm, as though the entire thing were perfectly normal.
Inside the Fortress, several unusual robots equipped with advanced technology examined you from head to toe.
They didn’t talk much.
Mostly metallic sounds and blinking lights that left you confused.
They guided you into a spotless white room.
Clean.
Cold.
One of them approached carrying a device unlike anything you had ever seen.
“Fertile,” one of the robots declared, as though delivering a verdict.
Then the procedure was performed.
It was quick.
It didn’t hurt.
But afterward, a strange feeling settled in your stomach.
Clark held your hand the entire time.
Without saying a word.
Only squeezing your fingers every now and then to remind you that you weren’t alone.
The robots explained that it would take time before anyone knew whether it had worked.
There were no guarantees.
It was Superman’s sperm and a human woman.
Something that had never been attempted before.
Not even the Kryptonians knew whether it was possible.
But the idea of becoming pregnant and having a son or daughter who carried something of Clark inside them secretly made you happy.
Happier than you were willing to admit.
Because even though you kept telling yourself he was only a donor, that there were no feelings involved, deep down you knew that having his child would make you happy.
And Clark, as silent as ever, simply smiled at you when you left the Fortress.
“It’s done,” he said.
As though it were the simplest thing in the world.
Meanwhile, inside, he was trembling with excitement and fear all at once.
The weeks passed.
Every morning you arrived at the office with your nerves stretched thin, uncertain whether your body had changed or not.
Whenever you came in, Clark would find a reason to approach without making anyone suspicious.
He would stop by your desk carrying a cup of coffee as if it were completely ordinary, as if he simply wanted to chat for a moment.
But then he would lean in slightly.
Lower his voice.
And his eyes would settle on yours with a mixture of hope and fear.
“Nothing?” he would whisper while sipping his coffee.
You would look at him.
“Nothing.”
And he would smile.
But it was a smile that faded quickly, as though he didn’t want to hope too much.
“We have to wait,” he would say.
And you nodded.
So you waited.
And waited.
Every day became a sweet kind of torture.
A mixture of wanting something to happen and being terrified that, in the end, nothing would.
It wasn’t until the following month.
You were sitting at the office, quietly eating while you worked.
Lois sat across from you with an enormous sandwich that looked as though it might fall apart in her hands at any moment.
You glanced at it.
The mayonnaise dripped from the edge.
Thick.
Glossy.
Slowly sliding onto the wrapping paper below.
The smell reached you in a way it never had before.
It wasn’t a bad smell.
But something inside your stomach suddenly twisted.
Without warning.
Without any chance to stop it.
Your mouth flooded with saliva, and your throat tightened.
You bolted for the restroom.
You barely made it before throwing up.
Bent over the toilet, you emptied everything you had eaten that morning.
Just indigestion, you told yourself while wiping your mouth with a paper towel.
Just that.
You refused to let yourself get your hopes up.
But when you stepped out of the women’s restroom, Clark was waiting for you, leaning against the wall.
He looked at you with those blue eyes that seemed to see everything, and there was something on his face that you couldn’t quite read.
He didn’t say a word.
Instead, he held out a black bag, one of those opaque ones that hid whatever was inside.
You took it with trembling hands, unsure of what it contained.
You had asked him for toothpaste and a toothbrush because your mouth tasted awful after throwing up, and you assumed that was what he had brought.
But when you opened the bag, your fingers found a small box.
A pregnancy test.
You looked at him with wide eyes.
“Just... in case,” Clark said in that calm voice he always used whenever he didn’t want to overwhelm you.
But his hands were buried deep in his pockets, clenched tightly.
Very tightly.
You nodded.
There was nothing else to say.
You slipped back into the restroom, locked the door, and stood there for a moment staring at yourself in the mirror.
You looked pale.
Carefully, you brushed your teeth.
Up.
Down.
The fresh taste of mint filled your mouth.
Then you opened the box.
You read the instructions twice, even though you already knew how the test worked.
You followed every step and laid it face-up on the sink.
Then you waited.
The seconds stretched endlessly.
One minute.
Two.
Your heart pounded so hard you could hear it in your ears.
You couldn’t bring yourself to look.
Instead, you left the restroom with the test hidden in your hand, still refusing to see the result.
Clark was still there.
He hadn’t moved an inch.
He looked at you, and the same fear you felt was written across his face.
“I did it, but I haven’t looked yet and... I’m scared, Clark. What if it didn’t work?” you whispered, your voice barely audible.
Clark stepped closer.
He placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, as though he were afraid you might break.
“If it didn’t, then I’m the problem, not you. You can still find another donor. I won’t let you go through this alone,” he said.
And he meant it.
Because he was willing to stay by your side even if he wasn’t the father.
Even if watching you have another man’s child would shatter his heart.
He would rather endure that than see you unhappy.
You nodded.
Then handed him the bag with the test inside.
You couldn’t look at it.
You left the responsibility of reading it to him.
Clark took the bag and carefully pulled out the test.
He stared at it in silence.
One second.
Two.
His expression changed.
His eyes grew slightly glassy, though he pressed his lips together to stop himself from crying.
“You’re one month along,” he whispered, his voice breaking.
He looked directly at you without blinking.
“You’re pregnant.”
“It worked,” you said.
And you nearly shouted it.
You clapped both hands over your mouth to keep from causing a scene in the middle of the newsroom hallway.
But inside, you were practically jumping with joy.
Clark smiled.
A wide, genuine smile he almost never showed anyone.
He stepped forward and wrapped you in a brief, tight hug.
One of those hugs that said more than a thousand words ever could.
Then he quickly pulled away before anyone could see.
But while holding you, he whispered something against your hair.
Something so quiet you almost didn’t hear it.
“Thank you.”
And he meant it for everything.
For giving me this chance.
For letting me be part of your life this way.
For finding me.
You told Perry you were pregnant.
You didn’t tell him who the father was.
You only asked for discretion.
No questions.
No strange looks.
Perry, gruff as ever but kind at heart, simply nodded.
He congratulated you with a firm handshake and never mentioned it again.
Lois and Jimmy found out one evening when you refused to drink alcohol.
You were all gathered at your apartment, just like so many times before.
Lois had brought red wine.
Jimmy had brought whiskey.
You sat there holding a glass but never took a sip.
Clark was seated beside you, as he had been increasingly often lately.
You were wearing looser shirts now that you were three months pregnant.
Your stomach was beginning to show.
Just a small bump.
Easy to hide beneath oversized clothes.
“Come on, have a drink. You’re making me feel like an alcoholic,” Jimmy joked, raising his glass of whiskey.
“Hey, leave her alone. If she doesn’t want to drink, she doesn’t have to,” Lois said.
But one eyebrow was raised.
As though she already suspected something.
“Yeah, it’s almost like you’re pregnant and don’t want to drink,” Jimmy said suddenly.
There was no malice behind it.
Just one of those random comments that slipped out.
The expressions on both your face and Clark’s gave everything away.
Your masks fell instantly.
Your cheeks turned bright red.
Clark went pale as a sheet.
The two of you froze like statues.
Jimmy spit out his wine.
A spray of red splattered across the table as he began coughing violently.
Lois dropped her pizza.
The slice landed face-down on her plate, and she didn’t even notice.
She only stared at you with eyes as wide as saucers.
“Why is... Clark... pale?” Jimmy asked, still wiping his mouth with his sleeve.
Lois pointed at you, her hand trembling.
“You’re pregnant?” she practically shouted.
Then she looked at Clark.
Then back at you.
Then at Clark again.
Her finger slowly shifted toward him.
“By Clark?”
You took a deep breath.
You knew this moment would eventually come.
That didn’t make it any easier.
You raised both hands in a calming gesture.
“It’s not what you think. We... we didn’t... he donated sperm,” you blurted out, the words tumbling over one another.
Clark blushed.
Actually blushed.
Something that almost never happened.
He buried his face in his hands and covered his eyes, looking like a child caught doing something forbidden.
“What? It wasn’t the natural method?” Jimmy asked, looking as though someone had hit him over the head.
His eyes widened dramatically.
He shook his head from side to side, unable to process what he was hearing.
You shook your head.
“No. Nothing like that. We went somewhere... it’s complicated. But nothing happened between us. It was just a medical procedure.”
Lois released a long breath, as though she had been holding it the entire time.
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Oh my God. You’re going to be a mom,” she said, crying as she stood up and wrapped her arms around you.
You smiled.
And her tears made your own eyes sting.
You explained everything.
That you and Clark lived in separate apartments because being a donor didn’t create obligations.
That you weren’t a couple.
That there was nothing romantic between you.
Just...
Well.
Just that.
But while you spoke, Clark kept stealing glances at you.
And in those glances there was something Lois and Jimmy noticed immediately.
Something you never did.
That unmistakable look of someone who wanted far more than he dared ask for.
Of course, Clark took care of you constantly.
Meals.
Cravings.
Medicine.
Everything.
If you got hungry at three in the morning, he appeared at your door carrying whatever you wanted.
If your back hurt, he arrived with a heating pad.
If you forgot your vitamins, he reminded you through text messages.
Always.
And every single time, he used the same excuse.
“I’m the donor. I feel responsible.”
But deep down, that wasn’t the truth.
He simply wanted to be close to you.
He wanted to take care of you.
He wanted, for a few hours each day, to pretend you were a family.
You stopped going to the Planet when your fifth month arrived and your stomach finally rounded into that unmistakable shape.
Now you truly looked pregnant.
You walked more slowly.
Got tired more easily.
And Clark drove you everywhere.
To appointments.
Back home.
Anywhere you needed to go.
At the Fortress, Clark monitored your pregnancy using Kryptonian technology and the robots’ advanced equipment.
Week after week, they examined you.
Nothing was wrong.
The baby appeared perfectly healthy.
The robots reported that the child—a girl, though you hadn’t wanted to know at first—was growing strong and healthy.
A strange blend of human and Kryptonian genetics.
But with no signs of danger.
So your life was never at risk.
One thing, however, was already certain.
The birth would require a cesarean section.
The baby was large.
Far too large to be delivered naturally.
And every time the robots displayed her image on their screens, Clark found himself staring a little longer than he should.
Because every heartbeat he heard reminded him of something he never allowed himself to say.
She’s ours.
And that thought terrified him just as much as it made him happy.
And it was.
A girl.
The moment you saw her, your heart nearly stopped from how beautiful she was.
Clark’s eyes lit up when he held her for the first time.
You gave birth at the Fortress, surrounded by white robots and glowing blue lights.
There was no danger.
Everything went well.
It was simply a long process.
Hours of waiting.
Pushing.
Crying.
Laughing.
And at the end of it all, a tiny little girl with brown hair like yours and blue eyes like Clark’s.
As much as you wanted to hide who her father was, the resemblance was impossible to miss.
Anyone who looked at her could see Clark in her eyes.
And you in her smile.
You returned to your apartment two days later.
Clark helped you into bed, carefully arranging the pillows behind your back so you would be comfortable.
Then he placed the crib beside your bed.
A beautiful crib made of light-colored wood, with smooth railings and a mattress that looked soft enough to be a cloud.
A crib he had purchased weeks earlier while you were taking a nap.
When Lois had asked him why there was a crib in his apartment, he had simply replied,
“It’s just a gift for my friend.”
And Lois had looked at him with a sad smile.
Because she knew.
She had always known.
He stayed with you that night.
And the next.
And the next.
He handed you the baby whenever it was time to nurse her.
Prepared meals while you rested.
Washed dishes.
Tidied the living room.
Whenever you fell asleep, Clark would sit in a chair beside the crib and watch the baby sleep.
For hours.
Without moving a single muscle.
His forearms resting on his knees.
Every hour, without fail, he used his X-ray vision to make sure both of you were sleeping peacefully and breathing normally.
Once every sixty minutes, just when you had fallen into a deep sleep, he would tilt his head slightly and look through the walls.
Through your body.
Through the crib.
Checking that both hearts were beating exactly as they should.
Only then would he allow himself to relax.
One evening, he pulled a wooden chair next to the crib and opened his laptop while darkness settled outside.
He began researching everything a newborn baby could possibly need.
Then he ordered it all for delivery.
Items scheduled to arrive the next day.
Or the day after.
Clothes he knew you hadn’t bought because you only owned the basic outfits Lois had gifted you.
He ordered long-sleeved onesies.
Cotton pajamas.
Tiny hats.
Little booties.
And several small dresses decorated with animals because he thought they were unbearably adorable.
He found a comfortable breast pump after reading thousands of reviews claiming it didn’t cause mothers discomfort.
He spent three hours comparing opinions before making his decision.
Soft-colored blankets.
Fleece throws for colder days.
A lightweight stroller that could be folded with one hand because he imagined you carrying the baby while trying to manage everything else.
A strange little device that gently rocked a baby on its own without needing someone to bounce it with a foot.
He found it in a baby store and thought it was incredible.
A large baby wrap designed to keep an infant snug against a parent’s chest while leaving both hands free.
He bought one for you.
And another for himself.
In case I ever babysit her, he told himself.
But the truth was that he bought it because he wanted something that would smell like her.
Glass baby bottles because he had read they were healthier.
A steam sterilizer.
More things than he could count.
The packages arrived slowly throughout those first days.
Box after box appeared at your doorstep.
Clark quietly carried them inside while you slept.
Clark never left.
He stayed for two straight weeks.
Sleeping on the couch.
Waking in the middle of the night at the slightest sound from the baby.
Bringing you water while you nursed.
Changing diapers without being asked.
And every time he saw you holding her, something in his expression softened.
He never said anything.
Because Clark never said anything.
But he was there.
Every night.
Every morning.
Every single day.
And while he watched his daughter sleep...
And while he listened to you breathing nearby...
Clark thought that this was the greatest I love you he could ever give you.
Because staying.
Being present.
Taking care of both of you without asking for anything in return.
That was his way of loving you.
The only way he believed he was allowed to.
If I can't be the man who holds her hand as your husband, then I'll be the man who shows up every day.
If I can't tell you that I love you, then I'll spend the rest of my life proving it.
And so, long after both of you had fallen asleep, Clark remained there beside the crib.
Watching over his daughter.
Watching over you.
Guarding the two people he loved most in the world.
Silently.
Just as he always had.
The days passed.
One week.
Then another.
Clark was still there, in your apartment, never leaving.
He slept on the couch every night, and every morning he woke up before you to make breakfast.
He learned how to prepare coffee with milk.
He learned how to heat food without burning it.
He learned how to change diapers with one hand while holding the baby with the other.
He had become part of the apartment.
Like another piece of furniture.
Like the light inside the refrigerator—something that was always there without you really noticing.
But one day, after nearly a month, something felt strange.
It wasn't that you didn't want him there.
It was that you started wondering whether you were letting him get too used to it.
Whether he felt obligated to stay.
Whether he was remaining out of kindness.
Out of pity.
Or simply because he was too good-hearted to tell you that he wanted to leave.
And you hated that thought.
You didn't want Clark staying because he felt sorry for you.
That afternoon, while he washed baby bottles in the kitchen and the baby slept peacefully in her bassinet, you leaned against the doorway and watched him.
His broad shoulders.
His slightly messy hair.
His bare feet against the cold floor.
He looked so natural there.
As though he had always lived with you.
And that was exactly what frightened you.
Because he was only the donor.
He wasn't your partner.
He wasn't the baby's father in the sense that the three of you lived together.
You couldn't allow yourself to get used to having him there.
"Clark."
He turned his head toward you with a small smile.
"I've been thinking..." you began. "You've been here for almost a month now. You don't have to stay anymore. You can go back home."
Clark stopped moving the dish towel he had been using to dry a bottle.
He froze for a second.
Barely the length of a heartbeat.
Then he nodded.
He placed the bottle on the counter and dried his hands on a kitchen towel.
"Yeah, you're right," he said.
His voice sounded normal.
Calm.
"I've been getting a little too comfortable around here."
And he smiled.
But it was a smile that never reached his eyes.
You didn't notice.
He was very good at hiding things.
He agreed to leave.
He packed his belongings into a small backpack.
A couple of shirts.
His toothbrush.
His phone charger.
He put on his shoes by the front door and looked at you for a moment.
"If you need anything, call me. Doesn't matter what time it is."
You nodded.
Thanked him.
And then he walked out the door.
He made his way down the hallway.
Down the stairs.
And when he finally reached the street, he stopped on the sidewalk and looked up at the window of your apartment.
And there, alone in the darkness, he finally allowed himself to be sad.
Because during the month he had spent with you, he had experienced the closest thing to a family he had ever known.
Waking up to the sounds you made in the morning.
Hearing the baby cry in the middle of the night.
Making dinner for three, even when one of them only drank milk.
All of it.
It was everything he had dreamed about without ever allowing himself to dream.
And now he was returning to his empty apartment.
His cold bed.
His silence.
His loneliness.
This was never supposed to feel like home.
So why does leaving hurt this much?
He could still hear the baby's heartbeat from where he stood.
Could still hear yours.
Two steady rhythms above him.
Safe.
Together.
Without him.
The thought settled heavily in his chest.
Don't be selfish.
She's happy.
That's what matters.
She's happy.
He repeated it like a prayer.
Like something he needed to believe.
Because loving you had always meant putting your happiness before his own.
Even when it hurt.
Especially when it hurt.
But Clark Kent was not the kind of man who stood around crying over what he couldn't have.
He took a slow breath.
Straightened his shoulders.
And tucked his hands into his pockets.
Then he started walking home.
He told himself he had enjoyed every second of it.
Every midnight feeding.
Every sleepy conversation.
Every moment spent watching you hold your daughter.
Their daughter.
Though he would never dare say those words aloud.
For a little while, I got to pretend.
For a little while, I got to know what it felt like.
And maybe that was enough.
You had told him he was always welcome.
That he could come back whenever he wanted.
That had to be enough.
It needed to be enough.
Because it was all he was ever going to have.
Or at least, that's what Clark convinced himself as he disappeared into the night and walked back toward an apartment that had never felt emptier.
Summary: They say third time’s a charm. But there's nothing charming left about Tommy Shelby, only a man worn thin by loss, ambition, and life’s choices he cannot outrun. Your worlds were never meant to collide. A polite evening meant only as a favour, a brief clash of tempers, you should have remained nothing more than a passing irritation to the notorious head of the Shelby family. Instead, a blizzard on the road outside Small Heath leaves you stranded with Birmingham’s most dangerous man. By morning the storm has passed, but the whispers have already begun. And in a world that offers women little mercy, your reputation hangs by a thread.
Scandalised, Tommy Shelby offers a solution as cold and practical as the damning winter night that caused it. Marriage. A union forged not from affection, but necessity, binding you to a man who never intended to wed again. But you refuse to be a silent wife tucked away behind his empire. And he refuses to become the obedient husband society expects.
Between roaring arguments, uneasy truces, and notes left on bedside tables at dawn, the two of you begin circling each other as the world beyond Birmingham refuses to stay still. And when business calls Tommy away, the dangers waiting beyond its streets may prove far more threatening than any scandal. Especially to one man's foolish heart.
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CAGED - ALL BETS ARE OFF || TOMMY SHELBY X READER || PART 06
Outline: Your father sold you to the head of the Peaky Blinders to pay off his debts. Now you're stuck with the most notorious mobster in Birmingham. Is he as bad as he seems?
Word Count: 1,738
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, dark themes, multi-part
Part 01 | Part 02 | Part 03 | Part 04 | Part 05
Despite the fall into insanity, you dressed quickly. Another Maroon dress - since he liked the first so much. I pulled my hair back into an elegant bun and slipped into a pair of comfortable shoes before heading downstairs. I was nervous. Why the hell was I so nervous? I quickly made my way to the dining hall, spotting Tommy already sitting at the head of the table. He looked up from his paper, his eyes scanning my form for a moment. My chest clenched. Did he not like it? Why did I care so much? ’You look lovely,’ he said, and you realised a breath you hadn’t even realised you were holding. ‘Come and sit, have something to eat before we head into the city,’ he gestured to the chair beside him, the one where only yesterday I was sitting, cowering in fear. I slipped into the chair, watching as Tommy poured some coffee into my cup. ’I think we both need it after last night,’ he gave me a warm smile, probably the first I had seen since I moved in here. It made him look a lot more handsome, the warmth, the kindness in his eyes. Things I hadn’t seen since my mother. When his eye caught mine, I blushed and looked away, picking up pastry and adding it to my plate to distract myself from the warmth I could feel all over my body from him.
‘I know you haven’t been into the city much, but you’ll be fine.’ Tommy explained, sipping on his own coffee, but his plate was empty. ‘We’ll go straight to the betting shop, you can stay in my office while I handle the business. But if you get overwhelmed or bored, I can have one of the boys bring you home.’
‘You should eat something.’ I said quietly, my brow furrowing at his empty plate. Tommy paused, his eyes narrowing on the paper. Panic set in, my chest clenched, and for a second, I thought I had done something wrong. I parted my lips to speak, to apologise, but the words lodged in my throat as Tommy silently reached across the table with a fork, stabbing a sausage and adding it to his plate. He filled his plate without a word, eating slowly as he continued to read the paper. I couldn’t help but smile down at my plate, pulling apart the pastry for my own breakfast. We ate in a peaceful silence until a man showed up at the door.
‘The car is ready, Sir.’ he said, Tommy nodded to him, turning to me. ’The betting shop is a busy place, so you’ll need to stay close to me unless I say so. Understand?’
I nodded quickly, the tone already told me there was no room for argument.
The betting shop was a different world—a chaotic, smoke-filled labyrinth of desperate men and fluttering paper. The air was thick with the scent of cheap tobacco, stale sweat, and the sharp, nervous energy of people praying for a miracle.
The betting shop was a different world—a chaotic, smoke-filled labyrinth of desperate men and fluttering paper. The air was thick with the scent of cheap tobacco, stale sweat, and the sharp, nervous energy of people praying for a miracle.
As you stepped through the threshold, the noise died down instantly, a ripple of silent, fearful acknowledgement that only followed a man like Tommy Shelby. Your heels clicked against the uneven floorboards, each step echoing in the sudden quiet.
Tommy stopped at a desk with a woman sat behind it, she was pretty, dressed professionally.
‘Morning, Tommy,’ she said, her voice smooth, though you saw her fingers tighten around the pen she held. She spared you a tight, meaningless smile. ‘Morning.’
‘Lizzie,’ Tommy acknowledged, his tone clipped. ‘You remember my wife, Y/N. Don’t you?’ he spoke as if you had met before, but you had no memory of her. However, Lizzie smiled politely.
‘Of course. Will she be with you all day?’ Lizzie asked, her tone was strained, she definitely wasn’t happy you were here.
‘Yes.’ Tommy gave the single word answer with a tight tone, ‘Get the ledgers. We have work to do.’ he ordered, moving towards the office behind her, gesturing for you to follow. You stuck to him like a shadow, keenly aware of the burning gazes from the men on the floor.
In the safety of the private office, you let out a slow breath. Tommy helped you out of your coat and hung it on the coat rack before steering you towards the desk, making you sit in the single chair behind it. Lizzie was back no long after, carrying large folders which you assumed were the ledgers. She gave you a disapproving look as he deposited the ledgers on the desk.
‘Didn’t think you’d like your wife to work, Mr Shelby,’ she quipped, giving him a light smile. But Tommy didn’t even full acknowldge her.
‘That’ll be all Lizzie.’ he dismissed her, her smile dropped as he left the office.
Tommy opened one of the ledgers in front of you, loose sheets of paper stacked neatly inside.
‘These are the stakes, the odds, and the payouts,’ he said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register that made your skin prickle. ‘Once they are submitted, they are carved in stone. The numbers never change. You understand?’
I nodded quickly, looking over the numbers on the scribbled on the paper.
A loud crash outside the office made me jump. Tommy looked up.
‘Stay here. I need to handle a dispute on the floor. Do not move.’ He stepped away, leaving you alone in the sanctuary of his desk.
The silence of the office was heavy. You looked down at the ledger. Neat columns of numbers, betting slips, and meticulous notes on debts owed. You stared down at the betting sheets on his desk, your brow furrowing. Something didn’t look right. You shuffled through them, noting the same thing on each. Every few rows, the numbers changed, almost as if they had been rubbed out and replaced; you could still see the slight indentations where the original numbers had been. It was pennies, a few pennies from each sheet, different rows each time. But Tommy said once the numbers are written down, they don’t change…
‘Y/N?’ You jumped at the mention of your name, your eyes snapping up to meet Tommy’s. When did he come back in? ‘Everything alright?’ he asked, looking down at the papers on his desk.
‘Oh… It’s nothing…’ I said quickly, I shouldn’t have been looking at the papers, he probably had a reason for whatever this way anyway…
Tommy stepped forward and rounded the desk, looking at the betting slips in front of me. ’You were looking pretty concerned for ‘nothing’.’ he said, staring down at me, a look that made my skin crawl with nervousness.
‘It’s just… Your betting sheets. You said the numbers didn’t change once they were written down.’ I said, my voice shaking slightly. Tommy nodded, his eyes moving from me to the sheets.
‘They don’t,’ he confirmed, his voice firm. I took a breath, tearing my gaze away from him and down to the papers, picking up one sheet.
‘But these do, right there.’ I pointed out one of the rows to him, ‘you can see someone rubbed out the number and put a new one on,’ Tommy snatched the sheet from me and I flinched, clenching my hand. Tommy’s gaze flicked to me for a second before going back to the sheet.
‘How many of these are like this?’ he asked, his voice growing rough. I quickly gathered up all the sheets I had found with the same marks and handed them to him, avoiding his gaze. I could feel it on me, burning through me as I tried to stop myself shaking with fear.
‘Arthur!’ he shouted, making me jump again. There was a crashing outside, but eventually, a man came through the door. Tommy’s brother, Arthur.
Arthur grinned at me, but I kept my head down. Tommy held out the sheets to him.
‘Find out who wrote these, they’re skimming off the top,’ he ordered, Arthur took the sheets from him, flicking through them and nodded.
‘Bastard…’ Arthur growled, leaving the office quickly. I could hear him shouting, but it was muffled when the door was closed. I kept my head down and my hands in my lap, and I still felt like I was in trouble for something that I had caused trouble from this.
Tommy leaned down, his breath fanning over my cheek.
‘Thank you,’ he whispered, leaning forward. I thought he wanted to talk to me, to make me look at him. So I turned my head before it could be forced. I froze when I felt his lips touch mine. Gentle, chaste. My eyes widened for a second, but they quickly fluttered closed. His lips were soft, subtle. Tommy didn’t pull away either; he just stayed. Eventually, his lips moved against mine, taking my bottom lip between his. My breath would have hitched if I could have breathed, but I couldn’t; I didn’t want to. Because breathing meant pulling away from this, and I didn’t want that at all.
Eventually, Tommy did pull away from me, and my lips chased after him, only a few millimetres before I stopped myself, my cheeks flaming. Tommy smiled at me, his hand coming up to cup my cheek gently.
‘You did well today, spotting that,’ he spoke quietly, ‘but I feel like I’m the one who got rewarded.’ If my cheeks could burn any redder, they definitely were at his words.
‘I’ll deal with this and then I’ll take you home myself.’ he smiled, pressing a kiss to my forehead before pulling away from me completely. I had to stop the noise in my throat that threatened to surface as he pulled away, the lost of his closeness tightening my chest.
‘I’ll be back soon, I promise.’ he pulled a cigarette from his pocket, heading out the door without another word.
I sat at his desk, the feeling of his lips still ghosted over mine.
What had I done?
☕ If you enjoyed this, buy me a coffee and I’ll brew up more filth... 👀🖤
Alfie visits a group of sisters who recently lost a loved one and finds out that the oldest one is rather intriguing.
Hazard | @/sopxhiea
Business is being done in a new buyer’s office and that’s when Alfie stumbles upon a person that does not seem to fit the rough lifestyle.
A Shelby Caught Out With A Solomons, part 02, part 03, part 04 | @buckys-beach
Your secret relationship with the infamous London gangster was going extremely well. Well, as good as it could be considering you were a Shelby. But it all comes crashing down once your brothers discover you on your knees in front of him.
Braiding & Bread | @wouldpollyapprove
The Baker & The Runaway Master List | @/wouldpollyapprove
Drama Queen | @/wouldpollyapprove
gentle giant | @charliehoennam
The Solomons enjoy quality family time with their young baby daughter
Pregnant wife | @/charliehoennam
Alfie comes homes late at night and finds his pregnant wife sleeping on the couch and confesses his fear to his unborn child
“Caravaggio” | @solomons-finest-rum
The mysterious and elusive Mrs. Solomons finally makes a public appearance. Safe to say, her and Grace Shelby won’t be best friends.
“A Decent Bastard” | @/solomons-finest-rum
It was just another morning; you went out for a walk, got attacked by Alfie’s enemies, came back bleeding to his bakery barely standing. Obviously, Alfie craves revenge and his rage turns murderous.
Imagine | @/solomons-finest-rum
Family respect | @dyns33
Alfie and his Shelby wife are back for more adventures.
Change of Plans | @muneca-lemon-steppa
Married Life with Alfie Solomons - HCs | @/muneca-lemon-steppa
Run Away With Me Darling | @/muneca-lemon-steppa
Art with Alfie | @peakyblinders1919
Traitor, part 02 | @itsthestutterforme
Off the Menu | @theshelbyclan
You were bored to death with your life, your wealth and the bourgeoisie. Until one party, your friend Tommy Shelby inadvertently introduces you to the gangster Alfie Solomons
Welcome to the chaos, little one | @/theshelbyclan
Giving birth is never easy, especially when it’s a Shelby x Solomons baby…
The matchmaker | @/theshelbyclan
You and Alfie strike up a strange sort of friendship, and Alfie is keen for it to become more than that, which leaves Tommy less than pleased
under my protection | @vintunnavaa
When Alfie’s favourite employee fails to report to work, the gangster decides to the needful to bring her back.
Ugly | just-iimagine
Bun In the Oven | @fandom-puff
Shelby!sister reader
Mistake | @/fandom-puff
Alfie knew he made a mistake when he pushed you away, and when you show up in the middle of a meeting with Tommy, it all comes flooding back to him
Blinds drawn | @/fandom-puff
“Favorite” | @clairecrive
Protect You | @murderousginger
ALFIE SOLOMONS AS A BOYFRIEND | @hardyslave
Gone Soft | @imagines-fandom
Alfie and the reader have been sneaking around for weeks. Tommy finally finds out.
Bad Men | @tommyspeakycap
Protected | @/tommyspeakycap
𝐿𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑠 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑙𝑦 𝑃𝑡．1 | @tommyshebyisdaddy
Ivy | @urimaginespimp
Alfie Solomons x Shelby Sister Reader where she’s betrothed by Thomas for a truce, now her and Alfie’s secret love affair is in thin line.
The Love Not Yet Known Part 1, Part 2 | @ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes
Tommy Shelby needs to make sacrifices to ensure the safety of his family. So he concocts a plan to marry off his sister to the one and only Alfie Solomons.
Say My Fuckin’ Name | @cinebration
Wicked Creature | @/cinebration
Slice of Heaven | @sinfulshelbys
secret relationship with alfie and shelby sis
Negotiation Skills | @multifandomwriter56
Alfie Solomons x Shelby!Sister reader | @vampirestookmydoubts
